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THE CouNTESS AMY AND JANET.—‘‘ Thou sayest true, Janet!” 
she answered, as she saw, with pardonable self-applause, the noble 
mirror reflect such charms as were seldom presented to its fair and 
polished surface,—Aentlworth, page 52. 


KENILWORTH 


BY 


SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 


No scandal about Queen Elizabeth, I hope? 
—Tue Critic, 


NEW YORK 
CLARKE, GIVEN & HOOPER 
PUBLISHERS 


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INTRODUCTION. 


A CERTAIN degree of success, real or supposed, in the delinea- 
tion of Queen Mary, naturally induced the Author to attempt some- 
thing similar respecting ‘‘ her sister and her foe,” the celebrated 
Elizabeth. He will not, however, pretend to have approached the 
task with the same feelings ; for the candid Robertson himself con- 
fesses having felt the prejudices with which a Scotsman is tempted 
to regard the subject; and what so liberal a historian avows, a 
poor romance-writer dares not disown. But he hopes the influence 
of a prejudice, almost as natural to him as his native air, will not 
be found to have greatly affected the sketch he has attempted of 
England’s Elizabeth. I have endeavored to describe her as at 
once a high-minded sovereign, and a female of passionate feelings, 
hesitating betwixt the sense of her rank and the duty she owed her 
subjects on the one hand, and on the other, her attachment toa 
nobleman, who, in external qualifications at least, amply merited 
her favor. The interest of the story is thrown upon that period 
when the sudden death of the first Countess of Leicester seemed to 
open to the ambition of her husband the opportunity of sharing the 
crown of his sovereign. 

It is possible that slander, which very seldom favors the mem- 
ories of persons in exalted stations, may have blackened the char- 
acter of Leicester with darker shades than really belonged to it, 
But the almost general voice of the time attached the most foul sus- 
picions to the death of the unfortunate Countess, more especially 
as it took place so very opportunely for the indulgence of her 


iv INTRODUCTION. 


lover’s ambition. If we can trust Asmole’s ‘‘ Antiquities of Berk- 
shire,” there was but too much ground for the traditions which 
charge Leicester with the murder of his wife. In the following ex- 
tract of the passage the reader will find the authority I had for the 
story of the romance : 

“ At the west end of the church are the ruins of a manor, an- 
ciently belonging (as a cell or place of removal, as some report) to 
the monks of Abingdon. _ At the Dissolution the said manor or 
lordship was conveyed to one Owen (I believe), the possessor 
of Godstow then. 

“In the hall, over the chimney, I find Abingdon arms cut in 
stone, viz., a patonee between four martletts; and also another 
escutcheon, viz., a lion rampant, and several mitres cut in stone 
about the house. There is also in the said house a chamber called 
Dudley’s chamber, where the Earl of Leicester’s wife was mur- 
dered ; of which this‘is the story following: .. 

‘‘ Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, a very. goodly personage, 
and singularly well featured, being a great favorite to Queen 
Elizabeth, it was thought, and commonly reported, that had he 
been a bachelor or widower the Queen would have made him her 
husband ; to this end, to free himself of all obstacles, he commands, 
or perhaps, with fair flattering entreaties, desires his wife to re- 
pose herself here at his servant Anthony Forster’s house, who 
then lived in the aforesaid .manor-house; and also prescribed to 
Sir Richard Varney (a prompter to this design), at his coming 
hither, that he should first attempt to poison her, and if that 
did not take effect, then by any other way whatsoever to despatch 
her. This, it seems, was proved. by the report of Dr. Walter 
Bayly, sometime fellow of New College, then living in Oxford, and 
professor of physic in that university ;. whom,'because he would 
not consent to take away her life by poison, the Earl endeavored to 
displace him in the court. This man, it seems, reported for most 
certain, that there was a practice in Cumnor among the conspira- 
tors to have poisoned this poor innocent lady a little before she was 
killed, which was attempted after this manner: They seeing the 
good lady sad and heavy (as one that well knew by her other hand- 
ling that her death was not far off), began to persuade her that her 
present disease was abundance of melancholy and other humors, 
etc., and therefore would needs counsel her to take some potion, 
which she absolutely refusing to do, as still suspecting the worst; 
whereupon they sent a messenger on a day (unawares to her) for 
Dr. Bayly, and entreated him to persuade her to take some little 
potion by his direction, and they would fetch the same at Oxford ; 
meaning to have added something of their own for her comfort, as 
the doctor upon just cause and consideration did suspect, seeing 
their great importunity, and the small need the lady had of physic, 
and therefore he peremptorily denied their request ; misdoubting 
(as he afterward reported) lest if they had poisoned her under the 
name of his potion, he might after have been hanged for a color of 
their sin, and the doctor remained still well assured that this way 
taking no effect, she would not long escape their violence, which 


INTRODUCTION, a) 


afterward happened thus. For Sir Richard Varney above said 
(the chief projector in this design), who by the Earl’s order, re- 
mained that day of her death alone with her, with one man only 
and Forster, who had that day forcibly sent away all her servants 
from her to Abingdon market, about three miles distant from this 
place ; they (I say whether first stifling her, or else strangling her) 
afterward flung her down a pairof stairs and broke her neck, using 
much violence upon her; but, however, though it was vulgarly re- 
ported that she by chance fell down stairs (but still without hurt- 
ing her hood that was upon her head), yet the inhabitants will tell 
you there, that she was conveyed from her usual chamber, where 
she lay, to another where the bed’s head of the chamber stood 
close to a privy postern door, where they in the night came and 
stifled her in her bed, bruised her head very much, broke her neck, 
and at length flung her down stairs, thereby believing the world 
would have thought it a mischance, and so have blinded their vil- 
lainy. But behold the mercy and justice of God in revenging and 
discovering this lady’s murder, for one of the persons that was a 
coadjutor in this murder, was afterward taken for a felony in the 
marches of Wales, and offering to publish the manner of the afore- 
said murder, was privately made away in the prison by the Earl’s 
appointment; and Sir Richard Varney, the other, dying about the 
same time in London, cried miserably, and blasphemed God, and 
said to a person of note (who hath related the same to others since), 
not long before his death, that all the devils in hell did tear him 
in pieces. Forster, likewise, after this fact, being a man formerly 
addicted to hospitality, company, mirth, and music, was afterward 
observed to forsake all this, and with much melancholy and pen- 
siveness (some say with madness) pined and drooped away. The 
wife also of Bald Butter, kinsman to the Earl, gave out the whole 
fact alittle before herdeath. Neither are these following passages 
to be forgotten, that as soon as ever she was murdered they made 
great haste to bury her before the coroner had given in his inquest 
(which the Earl himself condemned as not done advisedly), which 
her father, or Sir John Robertsett (as I suppose), hearing of, came 
with all speed hither, caused her corpse to be taken up, the coro- 
ner to sit upon her, and further inquiry to be made concerning 
this business to the full; but it was generally thought that the 
Earl stopped his mouth and made up the business betwixt them ; 
and the good Earl, to make plain to the world the great love he 
bare to her while alive, and what a grief the loss of so virtuous a 
lady was to his tender heart, caused (though the thing, by these 
and other means, was beaten into the heads of the principal men 
of the university of Oxford) her body to be reburied in St. Mary’s 
Church in Oxford with great pomp and solemnity. It is remark- 
able, when Dr. Babington, the Earl’s chaplain, did preach the 
funeral sermon, he tripped once or twice in his speech, by recom- 
mending to their memories that virtuous lady so pitifully murdered, 
instead of saying pitifully slain. This Earl, after all his murders 
and poisonings, was himself poisoned by that which was prepared 
for others (some say by his wife at Cornbury Lodge before men- 


vi INTRODUCTION. 


tioned), though Baker, in his Chronicle, would have it at Killing- 
worth, anno, 1588.” * 

The same accusation has been adopted and circulated by the 
author of ‘‘Leicester’s Commonwealth,” a satire written directly 
against the Earl of Leicester, which loaded him with the most hor- 
rid crimes, and, among the rest, with the murder of his wife.t It 
was alluded toin ‘‘ The Yorkshire Tragedy,” a play erroneously as- 
cribed to Shakespeare, where a rake, who determines to destroy 
all his family, throws his wife down ’stairs, with this allusion to 
the supposed murder of Leicester’ s Lady: 


The only way to charm a woman's tongue 
Is, break her neck—a politician did it. 


The reader will find I have borrowed several incidents as well 
as names from Ashmole, and the more early authorities; but my 
first acquaintance with the history was’ through the more pleasing 
medium of verse.{. There is a period in youth when the mere 
power of numbers has a more strong effect on ear and imagination 
than in more advanced life. At this season of immature taste the 
Author was greatly delighted with the poems of Mickle and Lang- 
horne, poets who, though by no means deficient in the higher 
branches, of their art, were eminent for their powers of verbal 
melody above most who have practised this department of poetry. 
One of those pieces of Mickle, which the author was particularly 
pleased with, is a ballad, or rather a species of elegy, on the sub- 
ject of Cumnor Hall, which, with others by the same author, were 
to be found in Evans’s ‘Ancient Ballads” (volume iv., page 130), 
to which work Mickle made liberal contributions. The first stanza 
especially had a peculiar species of enchantment for the youthful 
ear of the Author, the force of which is not even now entirely 
spent ; some others are sufficiently prosaic. ) 


*Ashmole’s Antiquities of Berkshire, vol. i., p. 149. The tradition as to 
Leicester's death was thus communicated by Ben Jonson to Drummond of 
Hawthornden ; ‘‘ The Earl of Leicester gave a bottle of liquor to his Lady, 
which he willed her to use in any faintness ; which she, after his returne from 
court, not knowing it was poison, gave him, and so he died.” 

t [This satire was written by the notorious Jesuit, Robert Parsons, and 
was largely copied by Ashmole in his Antiquities. ‘These authorities were 
perbaps too much relied upon by the Author. ] 

t Note A. ‘Title of Kenilworth, 


a 


Tue dews of summer night did fall ; 
The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 

Silver’d the walls of Cumnor Hall, 
And many an oak that grew thereby. 


Now naught was heard beneath the skies, 
The sounds of busy life were still, 

Save an unhappy lady’s sighs, 
That issued from that lonely pile. 


** Leicester,’’ she cried, ‘‘ is this thy love 
That thou so oft hast sworn to me, 

To leave me in this lonely grove, 
Immured in shameful privity ? 


‘* No more thou com’st, with lover’s speed, 
Thy once beloved bride to see ; 
But be she alive, or be she dead, 
I fear, stern Earl, ’s the same to thee. 
** Not so the usage I received 
When happy in my father’s hall ; 
No faithless husband then me grieved, 
No chilling fears did me appall. 


‘* T rose up with the cheerful morn, 

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay ; 
And like the bird that haunts the thorn, 

So merrily sang the livelong day. 


“Tf that my beauty is but small, 
Among court ladies all despised, 
Why didst thou rend it from that hall, | 
_ Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized ? 


** And when you first to me made suit, 
How fair I was you oft would say! 

And, proud of conquest, pluck’d the fruit, 
Then left the blossom to decay. 


‘* Yes! now neglected and despised, 
The rose is pale, the lily’s dead ; 

But he that once their charms so prized, 
Is sure the cause those charms are fled. 


‘** For know, when sick’ning grief doth prey, 
And tender love’s repaid with scorn, 

The sweetest beauty will decay— 
What floweret can endure the storm? 


** At court, I’m told, is beauty’s throne, 
Where every lady’s passing rare, 

That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun, 
Are not so glowing, not so fair. 


“ Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds 
Where roses and where lilies vie, 

To seek a primrose, whose pale shades 
Must sicken when those gauds are by ? 


*©*Mong rural beauties I was one, 
Among the fields wild flowers are fair ; 
Some country swain might me have won, 
And thought my beauty passing rare. 


“But, Leicester (or I much am wrong), 
Or ’tis not beauty lures thy vows ; 
Rather ambition’s gilded crown 
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse, 


=- omen > 


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INA AATOAVIAL BHP 


CHAPTER FIRST. 


Iam an innkeeper, and know my grounds, 
And study them ; Brain 0’ man, I study them, 
I mast have jovial guests to drive my ploughs, 
And whistling boys to bring my harvests home, 
Or I shall hear no flails thwack. 

THE NEw INN. 


IT is the privilege of tale-tellers to open their story in an inn, 
the free rendezvous of) all travelers, and where the humor of 
each displays itself, without ceremony or restraint. ; This is 
especially suitable when the scene is laid during the old days of 
merry England, when the guests were,in some sort not merely 
the inmates, but the messmates and temporary companions of 
mine host, who was usually a personage of privileged freedom, 
comely presence, and good humor.  Patronized by him, the 
characters of the company where placed in ready contrast ; and 
they seldom failed, during the emptying of a six-hooped pot, to 
throw off reserve, and present themselves to each other, and to 
their landlord, with the freedom of old: acquaintance. 

The village of Cumnor, within three or four miles of Oxford, 
boasted, during the eighteenth year of, Queen Elizabeth, an 
excellent inn of the old stamp, conducted, or rather ruled, by 
Giles Gosling; a man of a goodly person, and of somewhat round 
belly ; fifty years of age and upward, moderate in, his reckon; 
ings, prompt in his payments, having a cellar of sound. liquor, 
a ready wit, and a pretty daughter. Since the days of old 


2 KENILWORTH. 


Harry Baillie of the Tabbard in Southwark, no one had excelled 
Giles Gosling in the power of pleasing his guests of every 
description ; and so great was his fame, that to have been in 
Cumnor, without wetting a cup at the bonny Black Bear, would 
have been to avouch one’s-self utterly indifferent to reputation 
as a traveler. A country fellow might as well return from 
London, without looking in the face of majesty. The men of 
Cumnor were proud of their host, and their host was proud of 
his house, his liquor, his daughter, and himself. 

It was in the courtyard of the inn which called this honest 
fellow landlord, that a traveler alighted in the close of the even- 
ing, gave his horse, which seemed to have made along journey, 
to the hostler, and made some inquiry, which produced the fol- 
lowing dialogue betwixt the myrmidons of the bonny Black Bear. 

“¢ What, ‘ho ! John Tapster.” 

RAC hand, Will Hostler,” replied the man of the spigot, 
showing himself in his costume of loose jacket, linen breeches, 
and green apron, half within and half without a door, which 
appeared to descend to an outer cellar. 

“ Here is a gentleman asks if you draw good ale,” continued 
the hostler. ) 

“ Beshrew my heart else,” answered the tapster,” since there 
are but four miles betwixt us and Oxford.—Marry, if my ale 
did not convince the heads of. the scholars, they would soon 
convince my pate with the pewter flagon.” 

“Call you that Oxford logic ?” said the stranger, who had 
now quitted the rein of his horse, and was advancing’ toward 
the inn door, when he was encountered by the goodly form of 
Jiles Gosling himself. 

"TS <1 logic you talk of, Sir Guest ?” said the host ; “ why 
then, have at you with a downright consequence— 


' § The horse to the rack, 
And to fire with the sack.’” 


“Amen! with all my heart, my good host,” said the stranger; 
“let it be a quart of your best canaries, and give me your good 
help to drink it.” 

““ Nay, you are but in your accidence yet, Sir Traveler, if 
you call on your host for help for such a sipping matter as a 
quatt of sack—were it a gallon, you might lack some neigh- 
borly aid at my hand, and yet call yourself a toper.” 

‘Fear me not,’ " said the guest, ‘‘ I will do my devoir as 
becomes a man who finds himself within five’ miles of Oxford ; 
for I am not come from the field of Mars to discredit myself 
amongst the followers of Minerva.” 


KENILWORTH. 3 

As he spoke thus, the landlord, with much semblance of 
hearty welcome, ushered his guest into a large low chamber, 
where several persons were seated together in different parties ; 
some drinking, some playing at cards, some conversing, and 
some whose business called them to be early risers on the 
morning, concluding their evening meal, and conferring with 
the chamberlain about their night’s quarters. 

The entrance of a stranger procured him that general and 
careless sort of attention which is usually paid on such occa- 
sions, from which the following results were deduced :—The 
guest was one of those who, with a well-made person, and 
features not in themselves unpleasing, are nevertheless so far 
from handsome, that whether from the expression of their 
features, or the tone of their voice, or from their gait and 
manner, their arises, on the whole, a disinclination to their 
society. The stranger’s address was bold, without being frank, 
and seemed eagerly and hastily to claim for him a degree of 
attention and deference, which he feared would be refused, if 
not instantly vindicated as his right. His attire was a riding- 
cloak, which, when open, displayed a handsome jerkin overlaid 
with lace, and belted with a buff girdle, which sustained a 
broadsword and a pair of pistols. 

“You ride well provided, sir,” said the host, looking at the 
weapons as he placed on the table the mulled sack which the 

traveler had ordered. 
+» Yes, mine host ; I have found the use on’t in dangerous 
times, and I do not, like your modern grandees, turn off my 
followers the instant they are useless.” 

** Ay, sir ?.”’ said Giles Gosling ; ‘then you are from the Low 
Countries, the Jand of pike and caliver !” 

“T have been high and low, my friend, broad and wide, far 
and near ; but here is to thee in a cup of thy sack—fill thyself 
another to pledge me ; and, if it is less than superlative, e’en 
drink as you have brewed.” 

‘Less than superlative ?”” said Giles Gosling, drinking off 
the cup and smacking his lips with an air of ineffable relish— 
“T know nothing of superlative, nor is there such a wine at 
the Three Cranes, in the Vintry, to my knowledge ; but if you 
find better sack than that in the Sheres,-or in the Canaries 
either, I would I may never touch either pot or penny more. 
Why, hold it up betwixt you and the light, you shall see the 
little motes dance in the golden liquor like dust in the sun- 
beam. But I would rather draw wine for ten clowns than one 
traveler.—lI trust your honor likes the wine ?.” 

“It isneat and comfortable, mine host ; but to know good 


4 | KENILWORTH. 


liquor, you’ should drink where the vine grows. Trust me, 
your Spaniard is too wise a man to send you the very soul of 
the grape. Why, this now, which you account so choice, were 
counted but as a cup of bastard at the Groyne, or at Port Saint 
Mary’s. You should travel, mine host, if you would be deep 
in the mysteries of the butt and bottle-pot.” 

“In troth, Signior Guest,” said Giles Gosling, “if I were to 
travel only that I might be discontented with that which I can 
get at: home, methinks I should go but on a fool’s errand. 
Besides, I warrant you, there is many a fool can turn his 
nose up at’ good drink without ever having been out of the 
smoke of old England ; and so ever Soars mine own fire- 
side.” 

“This is but‘a mean mind of yours, mine host,” said the 
stranger ; °“ Ii:warrant me all your town’s folk do not think so 
basely.. You have gallants among you, I dare undertake, that 
have made the Virginia voyage, or taken a turn in the Low 
Countries at least. » Come, ‘cudgel your memory. Have you no 
friends in foreign parts that you would gladly have tidings of ?” 

*'Troth, sir, not I,’ answered the host, ‘since ranting Robin 
of Drysandford was .shot at the siege of the Brill.» The devil 
take the caliver that fired the ball, for a blither lad never filled 
acup at midnight. But he is dead and gone, and I know not 
a soldier, or‘a traveler, who i is a soldier’s mate, that I would 
give a peeled codling for.” 

‘By the mass, that is strange. What! so many of our 
brave English hearts are abroad, and you who seem to be a 
man of mark, have no friend, no kinsman, among them |” 

** Nay, if you speak of kinsmen,” answered Gosling, “I have 
one wild slip of a kinsman, who’ left us in the last year of 
Queen Mary ; but he is better lost than found.” 

“Do not say so, friend, unless you have heard ill of him 
lately.» Many a wild colthas turned out a noble steed.—His 
name, I pray you ?” , 

Bf Michael Lambourne,” answered the landlord of the Black 
Bear; “‘a son of my sister’s—there is little pleasure in recollect. 
ing either the name or the connection.’ 

‘Michael Lambourne!”’ said the stranger, as if andeavbrade 
to recollect himself—‘‘ What, no relation to Michael Lambourne, 
the gallant cavalier who behaved so bravely at the siege of 
Venlo that. Grave Maurice thanked him at the head of the 
army! Men said he was an English cavalier and of no high 
extraction.” 

‘It could scarcely be my nephew,” said Giles Gosling, “for — 


KENILWORTH. 5 


he had not the courage of a hen-partridge for aught but 
mischief.” 

“Qh, many a man finds courage in the wars,” replied the 
stranger. 

“ It may be,” said the landlord; “but I would have thought 
our Mike more likely to lose the little he had.” 

“'The Michael Lambourne whom I knew,” continued the 
traveler, “was a likely fellow—went always gay and well attired 
and had a hawk’s eye after a pretty wench.” 

“Our Michael,” replied the host, “had the look of a dog 
with a bottle at its ‘tail, and wore a coat, every rag of which was 
bidding good-day to the rest.” 

“Qh, men pick up good apparel in the wars,” replied thd 
guest. 

“Our Mike,” answered the landlord, “ was more like to pick 
it up in a frippery warehouse, while the broker was looking 
another way; and, for the hawk’s eye you talk of, his was 
always after my stray spoons. He was tapster’s boy here in 
this blessed house for a quarter of a year ; and between mis- 
reckonings, miscarriages, mistakes, and misdemeanors, had he 
dwelt with me for three months longer, I might have pulled down 
sign, shut up house, and given the devil the key to keep.” 

“You would: be sorry, after all,” continued the traveler, 
““were I to tell you poor Mike Lambourne was shot at the 
head of his regiment at the taking of a sconce near Maes- 
tricht ?”’ 

Sorry !—it would be the blithest news I ever heard of him, 
since it would ensure me he was not hanged. But let him 
pass—I doubt his end will never do such credit to his friends: 
were it so, I should say”—(taking another cap of sack)— 
“ Here's God rest him, with all my heart.” 

“’Tush, man,’ ’ replied the traveler, “never fear but you will 
have credit by your nephew yet, especially if he be the Michael 
Lambourne whom I knew, and loved very nearly, or altogether, 


as well as myself. Can you tell me no mark by which I could 


judge whether they be the same?” 

“Faith, none that I can think of,” answered Giles Gosling, 
“unless that our Mike had the gallows branded on his left 
shoulder for stealing a silver caudle-cup from Dame Snort of 
Hogsditch.”’ 

“Nay, there you lie like a knave, uncle,” said the stranger, 
slipping aside his ruff, and turning down the sleeve of his 
doublet from his neck and shoulder; “by this good day my 
shoulder is as unscarred as thine own.” 

“What, Mike, boy—Mike ! ” 


oe 
€ 


6 KENILWORTH. 


is it thou, in good earnest ?) Nay, I have judged so for this 
half-hour ; for I knew no other person would have ta’en half 
the interest in thee. But, Mike, an thy shoulder be unscathed 
as thou sayest, thou must own that Goodman Thong, the hang- 
man, was merciful in his office, and stamped thee with a 
cold iron.” 

“Tush, uncle—truce with your jests. Keep them to season 
your sour ale, and let us see what hearty welcome thou wilt give 
4 kinsman who has rolled.the world around for eighteen years ; 
who has seen the sun set where it rises, and has traveled till the 
west has become the east.” 

“Thou hast brought back one traveler’s gift with thee, 
Mike, as I well see ; and that was what thou least didst need to 
travel for. I remember well, among thine other qualities, there 
was no crediting a word which ¢ame from thy mouth.” 

‘“‘ Here’s an unbelieving Pagan for you, gentlemen !” said 
Michael Lambourne, turning to those who witnessed this strange 
interview betwixt uncle and nephew, some of whom, being 
natives of the village, were no strangers to his juvenile wildness. 
“This may be called slaying a Cumnor fatted calf for me with 
a vengeance.—But, uncle, I come not from the husks and the 
swine-trough, and I care not for thy welcome or no welcome ; I 
carry that with me will make me welcome, wend «where I 
will.” 

So saying, he pulled out a purse of gold, indifferently’ oi 
filled, the sight of which produced a visible effcct upon the 
company. Some shook their heads, and whispered to each 
other, while one or two of the less scrupulous speedily began to 
recollect him as a school-companion, a townsman, or so forth. 
On the other hand, two or three grave sedate-looking persons 
shook their heads, and left the inn, hinting, that if Giles Gosling 
wished to continue to thrive, he should turn his thriftless, god- 
less nephew adrift again, as soon as he could. Gosling demean- 
ed himself as if he were much of the same opinion ; for even the 
sight of the gold made less impression on the honest gentleman, 
than it usually doth upon one of his calling. 

* Kinsman Michael,” he said, “ put up thy purse. My sister’s 
son shall be called to no reckoning in my house for supper or 
lodging ; and I reckon thou wilt hardly wish to stay longer, where 
thou art e’en but too well known.” 

‘‘ For that matter, uncle,” replied the traveler, “ I shall consult 
my own neéds and conveniences. Meantime, I wish to give the 
supper and sleeping cup to those good townsmen, who are not 
too proud to remember Mike Lambourne, the tapster’ s boy. 
If you will let me have entertainment for my money, so—if not 


— 


KENILWORTH. 


it is but a’short two minutes’ walk to the Hare and Tabor, and 
I trust our neighbors will not grudge going thus far with me.” 

““Nay, Mike,” replied his uncle, “as eighteen years have 
gone over thy head, and I trust thou art somewhat amended in 
thy conditions, thou shalt not leave my house, at this hour, and 
shalt e’en have whatever in reason you list to call for. But I 
would I knew that that purse of thine which thou vaporest of, 
were as well come by as it seems well filled.” 

“ Here is an infidel for you, my good neighbors,” said Lam- 
bourne,a gain appealing to the audience. ‘“ Here’s a fellow will 
rip up his kinsman’s follies of a good score of years’ standing—- 
And for the gold, why, sirs, I have been where it grew, and was 
to be had for the gathering. In the New World have I been, 
man—in the Eldorado, where urchins play at cherry-pit with dia- 
monds, and country wenches thread rubies for necklaces, in- 
stead of rowan-tree berries; where the pantiles are made of pure 
gold, and the paving stones of virgin silver.” 

“ By my credit, friend Mike,” said young Laurence Goldthred 
the cutting mercer of Abingdon, “that were a likely coast to- 
trade to. And what may lawns, cypresses, and ribbons fetch, 
where gold is so plenty?” 

“Oh, the profit were unutterable,” replied Lambourne, 
fs especially when a handsome young merchant bears the pack 
himself ; for the ladies of that clime are bona-robas, and being 
themselves somewhat sunburnt, they catch fire like tinder at a 
fresh complexion like thine, with a head of hair inclining to be 
red.” 

“‘T would I might trade thither,” said the mercer chuckling. 

““Why, and so thou mayest,” said Michael ; “ that is, if thou 
art the same brisk boy who was partner with me at robbing the 
Abbot’s orchard—'tis but a little touch of alchemy to decoct thy 
house and land into ready money, and that ready money into a tall 
ship, with sails, anchors, cordage, and all things conforming; 
then clap thy warehouse of goods under hatches, put fifty good 
fellow on deck, with myself to command them, and so hoise 
topsails, and hey for the New World!” 

“Thou hast taught him a secret, kinsman,” said Giles Goss 
ling, * to decoct, an that be the word, his pound into a penny, 
and his webs intoa thread.—Take a fool’s advice, neighbor Gold- 
thred. Tempt not the sea, for she is a devourer. Let cards and 
cockatrices do their worst, thy father’s bales may bide a banging 
for a year or two, ere thou comest to the Spital; but the sea hatha 
bottomless appetit,—she would swallow the wealth of Lombard 
Street in a morning, as easilyas I would a poached egg, and cup 
of clary;—and for my kinsman’s Eldorado, never trust me if I do 


8 KENILWORTH. 


believe he has found it in the pouches of some such gulls as thy- 
self. But take no snuff in the nose about it ; fall to and welcome, 
for here comes the supper and I heartily bestow it on all that 
will take share, in honor of my hopeful nephew’s return, always 
trusting that he has come home another man.—In faith, kinsman, 
thou art as like my poor sister as ever was son to mother,” 

“Not quite so like old Benedict Lambourne, her husband, 
though,” said the mercer, nodding and winking. “ Dost thou 
remember, Mike, what thou saidst when the schoolmaster’s fer- 
ule was over thee for striking up thy father’s crutches ?—it is a 
wise child, saidst thou that knows its ownfather. Dr. Bircham 
laughed till he cried again, and his crying saved yours,” 

ar Well, he made it up to me many a day after,” Said Lam- 
bourne ; “and how is the worthy pedagogue ?” 

“Dead,” said Giles Gosling, ‘‘ this many a day since,” 

‘That he is,” said the clerk ofthe parish; “ I sat by his bed 
the whilst—He passed away in a blessed frame, ‘ M/orior— 
mortuus sum vel I fugi—mori ’—These were his latest words, and 
he just added, ‘ my last verb is conjugated,’ ” 

gi Well, peace be with him,” said Mike, “he owes me noth 
ing.’ 

we No, truly,” replied Goldthred ; ‘‘and every lash which he 

laid on thee, he always was wont to say, he spared the hangman 
a labor.” 

““One would have thought he left him little to do’ then,” 

said the clerk ; “and yet Goodman Thong had no sinecure of it 

with our friend, after all.’ 

“ Voto adios 1” exclaimed Lambourne, his patience appearing 
to fail him, as he snatched his broad; slouched hat from the 
table and placed it on his head, so that the shadow gave the 
sinister expression of a Spanish bravo to eyes and features which 
naturally boded nothing pleasant. “‘ Harkee, my masters—all 
is fair among friends, and under the rose; and I have already 
permitted my worthy uncle here, and all of you, to use your 
pleasure with the frolics of my nonage. But I carry sword and 
dagger, my good friends, and can use them lightly too upon 
occasion—I have learned to be dangerous upon points of honor 
ever since I served the Spaniard, and I would not have you pro- 
voke me to the degree of falling foul.” 

‘Why, what would you do?” said the clerk. 

“ Ay, sir, what would you do?” said the mercer, bustling up 
on the other side of the table. 

“Slit your throat, and spoil your Sunday’s quavering, Sir 
Clerk,” said Lambourne, fiercely ; ‘‘ cudgel you, my worshipful 
dealer in flimsy sarsenets, into one of your own bales,” 


Pa - 
KENILWORTH. 9 


“Come, come,” said the host, interposing, “ I will have no 
swaggering here—Nephew, it would become you best to show no 
haste to take offence ; and you, gentlemen, will do well to re- 
member, that if you are in an inn, still you are the innkeeper’s 
guests, and should spare the honor of his family.—I protest 
your silly broils make me as oblivious as yourself ; for yonder 
sits my silent guest, as I call him, who hath been my two days’ 
inmate, and hath never spoken a word, save to ask for his food 
and his reckoning—gives no more trouble thana very peasant— 
pays his shot like a prince royal—looks but at the sum total of 
the reckoning, and does not know what day he shall go away. 
Oh, ’tis a jewel of a guest! and yet, hang-dog that I am, I 
have suffered him to sit by himself like a castaway in yonder 
obscure nook, without so much as asking him to take bite or 
sup along with us. It was but the right guerdon of my inciv- 
ility, were he to set off to the Hare and Tabor before the 
night grows older.” 

With his white napkin gracefully arranged over his left arm, 
his velvet cap laid aside for the moment, and his best silver 
flagon in his right hand, mine, host walked up to the solitary 
guest whom he mentioned, and thereby turned upon him the 
eyes of the assembled company. 

He was a man aged between twenty-five and thirty, rather 
above the middle size, dressed with plainness and decency, yet 
bearing an air of ease, which almost amounted to dignity, and 
which seemed to ‘infer that his habit was rather beneath his 
rank. His countenance was reserved and thoughtful, with 
dark hair and dark eyes—the last, upon any momentary excite- 
ment, sparkled with uncommon lustre, but on other occasions 
had the same meditative and tranquil cast. which was exhibited 
by his features. The busy curiosity of the little village had 
been employed to discover his name and quality, as well as his 
business at Cumnor; but nothing had. transpired, on either 
subject which could lead to its gratification. Giles Gosling, 
head-borough of the place, and a steady friend of Queen 
Elizabeth and the Protestant religion, was at one time inclined 
to suspect his guest of being a Jesuit, or seminary priest, of 
whom Rome and Spain sent at this time so many to grace the 
gallows in England. But it was scarce possible to retain such 
a prepossession against a guest who gave so little trouble, paid 
his reckoning so regularly, and who proposed, as it seemed, to 
make a considerable stay at the bonny Black Bear. 

“ Papists,”. argued Giles Gosling, “are a pinching, close- 
fisted race, and this man would have found. a lodging with the 
wealthy squire at Bessellsey, or with the old Knight at Wootton, 


10 KENILWORTH. 


or in some other of their Roman dens, instead of living in a 
house of public entertainment, as every honest man and good 
Christian should. Besides, on Friday, he stuck by the salt 
beef and carrot, though there were as good spitchcocked eels on 
the board as ever were ta’en out of the Isis.” 

Honest Giles, therefore, satisfied himself that his guest was 
no Roman, and with all comely courtesy besought the stranger 
to pledge him in a draught of the cool tankard, and honor 
with his attention a small collation which he was giving to his 
nephew, in honor of his return, and as he verily hoped, of 
his reformation. ‘The stranger at first shook his head, as if 
declining the courtesy ; but mine host proceeded to urge him 
with arguments founded on the credit of his house, and the con- 
struction which the good people of Cumnor might put upon such 
an unsocial humor. 

“By my faith, sir,” he said, ‘it touches my reputation that 
men should be merry in my house, and we have ill tongues 
amongst us at Cumnor (as where be there not?) who put an 
evil mark on men who pull their hat over their brows as if 
they were looking back to the days that are gone, instead of 
enjoying the blithe sunshiny weather which God hath sent us 
in the sweet looks of our sovereign mistress, Queen Elizabeth, 
whom Heaven long bless and preserve!” 

‘““Why, mine host,’ answered the stranger, “ there is no 
treason, sure, in a man’s enjoying his own thoughts, under the 
shadow of his own bonnet? You have lived in the world twice 
as long as I have, and you must know there are thoughts that 
will haunt us in spite of ourselves, and to which it is in vain to 
say, begone, and let me be merry.” 

“By my sooth,” answered Giles Gosling, “if such trouble- 
some thoughts haunt your mind, and will not get them gone 
for plain English, we will have one of Father Bacon’s pupils 
from Oxford, to conjure them away with logic and with 
Hebrew—Or, what say you to laying them in a glorious red sea 
of claret, my noble guest? Come, sir, excuse my freedom. I 
am an old host, and must have my talk. This peevish humor 
of melancholy sits ill upon you—it suits not with a sleek boot, 
a hat of a trim block, a fresh cloak, and a full purse—A pize 
on it, send it off to those who have their legs swathed with a 
hay-wisp, their heads thatched with a felt bonnet, their jerkin 
as thin as a cobweb, and their pouch without ever across to 
keep the fiend Melancholy from dancing in it. Cheer up, 
sir! or by this good liquor we will banish thee from the joys of 
blithesome company into the mists of melancholy and the land 


j 
! 


KENILWORTH. ii 


of little-ease. Here bea set of good fellows willing to be merry ; 


do not scowl on them like the devil looking over Lincoln.” 

“You say well, my worthy host,” said the guest: with a 
melancholy smile, which, melancholy as it was, gave a very 
pleasant expression to his countenance—“ You say well, my 
jovial friend; and they that are moody like myself, should not 
disturb the mirth of those who are happy—I will drink a round 
with your guests with all my heart, rather than be termed a 
mar-feast.” 

So saying, he arose and joined the company, who, encouraged 
by the precept and example of Michael Lambourne, and con- 
sisting chiefly of persons much disposed to profit by the oppor- 
tunity of a merry meal at the expense of their landlord, had 
already made some inroads upon the limits of temperance, as 
was evident from the tone in which Michael inquired after his 
old acquaintances in the town, and the bursts of laughter with 
which each answer was received. Giles Gosling himself was 
somewhat scandalized at the obstreperous nature of their mirth, 
especially as he involuntarily felt some respect for his unknown 
guest. He paused, therefore, at some distance from the table 
occupied by these noisy revelers, and began to make a sort’ of 
apology for their license. 

“You would think,” he said, “to hear these fellows talk, 
that there was not one of them who had not been bred to live 
by Stand and Deliver ; and yet to-morrow you will find them 
a set of as painstaking mechanics, and so forth, as ever cut an 
inch short of measure, or paid a letter of change in light crowns 
over a counter. The mercer there wears his hat awry, over a 
shagged head of hair, that looks like a curly water-dog’s back, 


goes unbraced, wears his cloak on one side, and affects a rufhanly 


vaporing humor—when in his shop at Abingdon, he_ is, from 
his flat cap to his glistening shoes, as precise in his apparel as 
if he was named for mayor. He talks of breaking parks, and 
taking the highway, in such a. fashion that you would think he 
haunted every night betwixt Hounslow and London; when in 
fact he can be found sound asleep on his feather-bed, with a 
candle placed beside him on one side, and a Bible on the other, 
to fright away the goblins.” | 

“And your nephew, mine host, this same Michael Lam- 
bourne, who is lord of the feast—is he, too, such a,would-be 
ruffler as the rest of them?” 

“ Why, there you push me hard,” said the host ; ‘“ my nephew 
is my nephew, and though he was a desperate Dick of yore, yet 
Mike may have mended like other folks,, you wot—And I 
would not have you think all I said of him, even now was 


12 KENILWORTH. 


strict gospel—I knew the wag all the while, and wished to 
pluck his plumes from him—And now, sir, by what name shall 
I present my worshipful guest to these gallants ?”’ 
“Marry, mine host,” replied the stranger, “ you may call 
me Tressilian.” 
- “'Tressilian? ”’ answered mine host of the Bear, “a worthy 
name; and, so I think, of Cornish lineage; for what says the 
south proverb— | 


‘By Pol, Tre, and Pen, 
You may know the Cornish men.’ 


Shall I say the worthy Mr. Tressilian of Cornwall ?” 

‘Say no more than I have given you warrant for, mine 
host, and so shall you be sure you speak no more than is true. 
A man may have one of those honorable prefixes to his name, 
yet be born far from Saint Michael’s Mount.” 

Mine host pushed his curiosity no further, but presented 
Mr. Tressilian to his nephew’s company, who, after exchange 
of salutations, and. drinking to the health of their new com- 
panion, pursued the conversation in which he found them 
engaged, seasoning it with many an intervening pledge. 


CHAPTER SECOND. 


Talk you of young Master Lancelot? 
MERCHANT OF VENICE. 


AFTER some brief interval, Master Goldthred, at the earnest 
instigation of mine host, and the joyous concurrence of his 
guests, indulged the company with the following morsel of 
melody :— 

Of all the birds on bush or tree, 
Commend me to the owl, 

Since he may best ensample be 
To those the cup that trowl. 


For when the sun hath left the west, 

He chooses the tree that he loves the best, ss 
And he whoops out his song, and he laughs at his jest, 

Then though hours be late, and weather foul, 

We'll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny owl. 


The lark is but a bumpkin fowl, 
He sleeps in his nest till morn; 
But my blessing upon the jolly owl, ne = 
That all night blows his horn, JO0 


KENILWORTH. 13 


Then up with your cup till you stagger in speech, 

And march me this catch though you swagger and screech, 
And drink till you wink, my merry men each ; 

For though hours be late, and weather be foul, 

We'll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny owl. 


“There is savor in this, my hearts,” said Michael, when the 
mercer had finished his song, “ and some goodness seems left 
among you yet—but what a bead-roll you have read me of old 
comrades, and to every man’s name tacked some ill-omened 
motto? And so Swashing Will of Wallingford hath bid us 
good night?” 

“He died the death of a fat buck,” said one of the party, 
“being shot with a crossbow bolt, by old Thatcham, the Duke’s 
stout park-keeper at Donington Castle.” 

“ Ay, ay, he always loved venison well,’”’ replied Michael, 
“anda cup of claret to boot—and so here’s one to his memory. 
Do me right, my masters.” 

When the health of this departed worthy had been duly 
honored, Lambourne proceeded to inquire after Prance of 
Padworth. . 

“Pranced off—made immortal ten years since,’ said the 
mercer; ‘marry, sir, Oxford Castle and Goodman Thong, and 
a tenpenny-worth of cord best know how.” 

“What, so they hung poor Prance high and dry? so much 
for loving to walk by moonlight—a cup to his memory, my 
masters—all merry fellows like moonlight. What has become 
of Hal with the plume ?—he who lived near Yattenden, and 
wore the long feather—I forget his name.” 

“What, Hal Hempseed?”’ replied the mercer, “why, you 
may remember, he was a sort of a gentleman, and would meddle 
in state matters, and so he got into the mire about the Duke 
of Norfolk’s matter these two or three years since, fled the 
country with a pursuivant’s warrant at his heels, and has never 
since been heard of.” 

‘Nay, after these baulks,” said Michael Lambourne, “I need 
hardly inquire after Tony Foster ; for when ropes, and crossbow 
shafts, and pursuivant’s warrants, and such like gear, were so 
rife, Tony could hardly ’scape them.” 

“Which Tony Foster mean you?”’ said the innkeeper. 

“Why, he they called Tony Fire-the-Fagot, because he 
brought a light to kindle the pile round Latimer and Ridley, 
when the wind blew out Jack Thong’s touch, and no man else 
would give him light for love or money.” 

“Tony Foster lives and thrives,” said the host—But, kins- 


14 KENILWORTH. 


man, I would not have you call him Tony Fire-the-Fagot, if 
you would not brook the stab.” 

‘“‘Flow ! is he grown ashamed on’t ?”’ said Lambourne ; “ why 
he was wont to boast of it and say he liked as well to seea 
roasted heretic as a roasted ox.” 

“Ay, but kinsman, that was in Mary’s time,” replied the 
landlord, “‘ when Tony’s father was Reeve here to the Abbot of 
Abingdon. But since that, Tony married a pure precisian, and 
is as good a Protestant, I warrant you, as the best.” 

*¢ And looks grave, and holds his head high, and scorns his 
old companions,” said the mercer. 

“Then he hath prospered, I warrant him,” said Lambourne ; 
* for ever when aman hath got nobles of his own, he keeps 
out of the way of those whose exchequers lie in other men’s 
purchase.” 

‘¢ Prospered, quotha!” said the mercer ; “why, you remember 
Cumnor Place, the old mansion-house beside the churchyard ?” 

‘By the same token, I robbed the orchard three times— 
what of that?—It was the old Abbot’s residence when there 
was plague or sickness at Abingdon.” 

“Ay,” said the host, “but that has been long oyer; and 
Anthony Foster hath a right in it, and lived there by some 
grant from a great courtier, who had the church-lands from the 
crown ; and there he dwells, and has as little to do with an 
poor wight in Cumnor, as if he were himself a belted knight.” 

‘Nay,’ said the mercer, “ it is not altogether pride in Tony 
neither—there is a fair lady in the case, and Tony will scarce 
let the light of day look on her.” 

“ How !” said Tressilian, who now for the first time interfered 
in their conversation, “ did ye not say this Foster was married 
and toa precisian ?” 

‘“¢ Married he was, and to as bitter a precisian as ever ate flesh 
in Lent; and a cat-and-dog life she led with Tony, as men said, 
But she is dead, rest be with her, and Tony hath but a slip of 
a daughter ; so it is thought he means to wed this stranger, that 
men keep such a coil about.” 

‘‘ And why so ?—I mean, why do they keep a coil about her?” 
said Tressilian. 

“Why, I wot not,’ answered the host, “except that men 
say she is as beautiful as an angel, and no one knows whence 
she comes, and every one wishes to know why she is kept so 
closely mewed up, For my part, I never saw her—you have, 
I think, Master Goldthred ?” 

‘ That I have, old boy,” said the mercer. “ Look you, I was 
riding hither from Abingdon—I passed under the east oriel 


KENILWORTH. rs 


window of the old mansion, where all the old saints and his- 
tories and such like are painted—lIt was not the common path 
I took, but one through the Park ; for the postern-door was 
upon the latch, and I thought I might take the privilege of an 
old comrade to ride across through the trees, both for shading, 
as the day was somewhat hot, and for avoiding of dust, because 
I had on my peach-colored doublet, pinked out with cloth of 
gold.” 

“Which garment,” said Michael Lambourne, “ thou wouldst 
willingly make twinkle in the eyes of afairdame. Ah! villain, 
thou wilt never leave thy old tricks,” 

*¢ Not so—not so,” said the mercer, with a smirking laugh ; 
“ not altogether so—but curiosity, thou knowest, and a strain of 
compassion withal,—for the poor young lady sees nothing from 
morn to even but Tony Foster, with his scowling black brows, 
his bull’s head, and his bandy legs.” 

“ And thou wouldst willingly show her a dapper body, in a 
silken jerkin—a limb like a short-legged hen’s in a cordovan 
boot, and a round, simpering, what-d’ye-lack sort of a counte- 
nance, set off with a velvet bonnet, a Turkey feather and a 
gilded brooch ? Ah! jolly mercer, they who have good wares 
are fond toshowthem! Come, gentles, let not the cup stand— 
here’s to long spurs, short boots, full bonnets, and empty skulls!” 

** Nay, now you are jealous of me, Mike,” said Goldthred ; 
“and yet my luck was but what might have happened to thee, 
or any man.” | 

‘Marry, confound thine impudence,” retorted Lambourne ; 
“thou wouldst not compare thy pudding face and sarsenet 
manners to a gentleman and a soldier ?” 

“Nay, my good sir,” said Tressilian, ‘let me beseech you 
will not interrupt the gailant citizen ; methinks he tells his tale 
so well, I could hearken to him till midnight.” 

“Tt’s more of your favor than of my desert,” answered 
Master Goldthred ; “but since I give you pleasure, worthy 
Master Tressilian, I shall proceed, maugre all the gibes and 
quips of this valiant soldier, who, peradventure, hath had more 
cuffs than crowns in the Low Countries.—And so, sir, as I 
passed under the great painted window, leaving my rein loose 
on my ambling palfrey’s neck, partly for mine ease, and partly 
that I might have the more leisure to peer about, I hears me 
the lattice open ; and never credit me, sir, if there did not stand 
there the person of as fair a woman as ever crossed mine eyes ; 
and I think I have looked on as many pretty wenches, and with 
as much judgment, as other folks.” 

“May I ask her appearance, sir ?” said Tressilian. 


16 KENILWORTH. 


“Oh, sir,” replied Master Goldthred, ‘I promise you, she 
was in gentlewoman’s attire—a very quaint and pleasing dress, 
that might have served the Queen herself; for she had a fore- 
part with body and sleeves, of ginger-colored satin, which, in 
my judgment, must have cost by the yard some thirty shillings, 
lined with murey taffeta, and laid down and guarded with two 
broad laces of gold and, silver... And her hat, sir, was truly the 
best fashioned thing that I have seen in these parts, being of 
tawny taffeta, embroidered with scorpions of Venice gold, and 
having a border garnished with gold fringe ;—I promise you, 
sir, an absolute and all-surpassing device. Touching her skirts, 
they were in the old pass-devant fashion.” 

“TI did not ask you of her attire, sir,” said Tressilian, who 
had shown some impatience during their conversation, “ but of 
her complexion—the color of her hair, her features.” 

“Touching her complexion,” answered the mercer, ‘‘ I am 
not so special certain; but I marked that her fan had an ivory | 
handle curiously inlaid ;—and then again, as to the color of her 
hair, why, I can warrant, be its hue what it might, she wore 
above it a net of green silk, parcel twisted with gold.” 

*¢ A most mercer-like memory,” said Lambourne; the gentle- 
man asked him of the lady’s beauty, and he talks of her fine 
clothes. 

‘“‘T tell thee,” said the mercer, somewhat disconcerted, “I 
had little time to look at her ; for just as I was about to give her 
the good time of day, and for that purpose had puckered my 
features with a smile” 

“ Like those of a jackanape simpering at a chestnut,” said 
Michael Lambourne. 

—‘ Up started of a sudden,” continued Goldthread, without 
heeding the interruption, “Tony Foster himself, with a cudgel 
in his hand” 

‘“‘ And broke thy head across, I hope, for thine impertinence,” 
said his entertainer. 

“That were more easily said than done,” answered Goldthred 
indignantly; “no, no—there was no breaking of heads—it’s 
true, he advanced his cudgel, and spoke of laying on, and asked 
why I did not keep the public road, and such like ; and I would 
have knocked»him over the pate handsomely for his pains, only 
for the lady’s presence, who might have swooned, for what 
I know.” 

“Now, out upon thee for a faint-spirited slave!” said Lam- — 
bourne ; “what adventurous knight ever thought of the lady’s 
terror, when he went to thwack giant, dragon, or magician, in 
her presence, and for her deliverance? But why talk to thee 


KENILWORTH. 1y 


of dragons, who would be driven back by a dragon-fly? There 
thou hast missed the rarest opportunity !” 

“Take it thyself, then bully Mike,” answered Goldthred.— 
Yonder is the enchanted manor, and the dragon, and the lady, 
all at thy service, if thou darest venture on them.” 

“ Why, so I would for a quartern of sack,” said the soldier— 
“ Or stay—I am foully out of linen—wilt thou bet a piece of 
Holland against these five angels, that I go not up to the Hall 
to-morrow, and force Tony Foster to introduce me to his fair 
guest?” 

“T accept your wager,” said the mercer; “and I think, 
though thou hadst even the impudence of the devil, I shall gain 
on thee this bout. Our landlord here shall hold stakes, and I 
will stake down gold till I send the linen.” 

“J will hold stakes on no such matter,” said Gosling. 
“Good now, my kinsman, drink your wine in quiet, and let such 
ventures alone. I promise you, Master Foster hath interest 
enough to lay you up in lavender at the Castle of Oxford, or 
to get your legs made*acquainted with the town-stocks.” 

“That would be but renewing an old intimacy; for Mike’s 
shins and the town’s wooden pinfold have been well known to 
each other ere now,” said the mercer ; “ but he shall not budge. 
from his wager, unless he means to pay forfeit.” 

“ Forfeit ?”? said Lambourne; “I scorn it. I value Tony 
Foster’s wrath no more than a shelled pea-cod; and I will visit 
his Lindabrides,* by Saint George, be he willing or no!” 

“T would gladly pay your halves of the risk, sir,” said Tres- 
silian, “ to be permitted to accompany you on the adventure.” 

“In what would that advantage you, sir?” answered Lam- 
bourne. 

“Tn nothing, sir,” said Tressilian, “ unless to mark the skill 
and valor with which you conduct yourself. I am a traveler 
who seeks for strange rencounters and uncommon passages, as 
the knights of yore did after adventures and feats of arms.” 

“Nay, if it pleasure you to see a trout tickled,’ answered 
Lambourne, “I care not how many witness my skill. And so 
here I drink success to my enterprise; and he that will not 
pledge me on his knees is a rascal and I will cut his legs off 
by the garters!” 

The draught which Michael Lambourne took upon this 
occasion had been preceded by so many others, that reason 


_tottered on her throne. He swore one or two incoherent 


oaths at the mercer, who refused, reasonably enough, to pledge 


him to a sentiment which inferred the loss of his own wager. 


* [Lindabrides, a female of doubtful reputation.] 


18 KENILWORTH. 


“Wilt thou chop logic with me,” said Lambourne, “thou 
knave, with no more brains than a skein of raveled silk? B 
Heaven, I will cut thee into fifty yards of galloon lace!” 

But as he attempted to draw his sword for this doughty 
purpose, Michael Lambourne was seized upon by the tapster 
and the chamberlain, and conveyed to his own apartment, there 
to keep himself sober at his leisure. 

The party then broke up, and the guests took their leave ; 
much more to the contentment of mine host than of some of 
the company, who were unwilling to quit good liquor, when it 
was to be had for free cost, so long as they were able to sit by 
it. ‘They were, however, compelled to remove; and go at length 
they did, leaving Goslin and Tressilian in the empty apartment. 

“‘ By my faith,” said the former, “I wonder where our great 
folks find pleasure, when they spend their means in entertain- 
ments, and playing mine host without sending in reckoning. It 
is what I but rarely practice ; and whenever I do, by Saint Julian, 
it grieves me beyond measure. Each of these empty stoups, 
now, which my nephew and his drunken comrades have swilled, 
off, should have been a matter of profit to one in my line, and I 
must set them down a dead loss. I cannot, for my heart, con- 
ceive the pleasure of noise, and nonsense, and drunken freaks, 
and drunken quarrels, and smut, and blasphemy, and so forth, 
when a man loses money instead of gaining by it. And yet 
many a fair estate is lost in upholding such a useless course, and 
that greatly contributes to the decay of publicans ; for who the 
devil do you think would pay for drink at the Black Bear, when 
he can have it for nothing at my Lord’s or the Squire’s ?” 

Tressilian perceived that the wine had made some impression 
even on the seasoned brain of mine host, which was chiefly to 
be inferred from his declaiming against drunkenness. As he 
himself had carefully avoided the bowl, he would have availed 
himself of the frankness of the moment to extract from Gosling 
some farther information upon the subject of Anthony Foster, 
and the lady whom the mercer had seen in the mansion-house ; 
but his inquiries only set the host upon a new theme of decla- 
mation against the wiles of the fair sex,in which he brought at 
full length the whole wisdom of Solomon to reinforce his own. 
Finally, he turned his admonitions, mixed with much objurga- 
tion, upon his tapsters and drawers, who were employed in 
removing the relics of the entertainment, and restoring order 
to the apartment; and at length, joining example to precept, 
though with no good success, he demolished a salver with halfa 
score of glasses, in attempting to show how such service was 
done at the Three Cranes in the Vintry, then the most topping 


KENILWORTH. 19 


tavern in London. This last accident so far recalled him to his 
better self, that he retired to his bed, slept sound, and awoke 
a new man in the morning. 


CHAPTER THIRD. 


Nay, I’ll hold touch—the game shall be play’d out, 
It ne’er shall stop for me, this merry wager ; 
That which I say when gamesome, I'll avouch 
In my most sober mood, ne’er trust me else. 
THE HAZARD-TABLE. 


“ Anp how doth your kinsman, good mine host!” said 
Tressilian, when Giles Gosling first appeared in the public room 
on the morning following the revel which we described in the last 
chapter. ‘Is he well, and will he abide by his wager?” 

“* For well, sir, he started two hours since, and has visited I 
know not what purlieus of his old companions; hath but now 
returned, and is at this instant breakfasting on new-laid eggs 
and muscadine ; and for his wager, I caution youas a friend to 
have little to do with that, or indeed aught that Mike proposes. 
Wherefore, I counsel you to a warm breakfast upon a culiss, 
which shall restore the tone of the stomach; and let my: 
nephew and Master Goldthred swagger about their wager as 
they list.” 

“Tt seems to me, mine host,” said Tressilian, ‘‘that you know 
not well what to say about this kinsman of yours; and that 
you can neither blame nor commend him without some twinge’ 
of conscience.” 

“You have spoken truly, Master Tressilian,” replied Giles 
Gosling. ‘There is natural affection whimpering into one ear, 
‘Giles, Giles, why wilt thou take away the good name of thy 
own nephew? Wilt thou defame thy sister’s son, Giles Gos- 
ling? Wilt thou defoul thine own nest, dishonor thine own 
blood?’ Andthen, again, comes Justice, and says, ‘Here is a 
worthy guest as ever came to the bonny Black Bear ; one who 
never challenged a reckoning’ (as I say to your face you never 
did, Master Tressilian—not that you have had cause), ‘one 
who knows not why he came, so far as I can see, or when he is 
going away ; and wilt thou, being a publican, having paid scot 
and lot these thirty years in the town of Cumnor, and being at 
this instant head-borough, wilt thou suffer this guest of guests 


bXe) KENILWORTH, 


this man of men, this six-hooped pot (as I may say) of a 
traveler, to fall into the meshes of thy nephew, who is known 
for a swasher and a desperate Dick, a carder, and a dicer, a 
professor of the seven damnable sciences, if ever man took 
degrees in them ?? No, by Heaven ! I might wink, and let 
him catch such a small butterfly as Goldthred ; but thou, my 
guets, shalt be forewarned, forearmed so thou wilt but listen to 
thy trusty host.” 

‘“‘Why, mine host, thy counsel shall not be cast away,” 
replied Tressilian ; ‘‘ however, I must uphold my share in this 
wager, having once passed my word to that effect. But, lend 
me, I pray, some of thy counsel—This Foster, who or what is 
he, and why makes he such mystery of his female inmate ?” 

“* Troth,” replied Gosling, ‘I can add but little to what you 
heard last night. He was one of Queen Mary’s Papists, and 
now he is one of Queen Elizabeth’s Protestants ; he was an 
on-hanger of the Abbot of Abingdon, and now he lives as 
master of the Manor-house. Above all, he was poor and is 
rich. Folk talk of private apartments in his old waste man 
sion-house, bedizened fine enough to serve tne Queen, God bless 
her. Some men think he found a treasure in the orchard, some 
that he sold himself to the devil for treasure, and some say that 
he cheated the Abbot out of the church plate, which was hidden 
in the old Manor-house at the Reformation. Rich, however, 
he is, and God and his conscience, with the devil perhaps 
besides, only know how he came by it. He has sulky ways 
too, breaking off intercourse with all that are of the place, as 
if he had either some strange secret to keep, or held himself to. 
be made of anohter clay than we are. I think it hkely my 
kinsman and he will quarre), if Mike thrust his acquaintance 
on him ; and I am sorry that you, my worthy Master Tressilian, 
will still of think going in my nephew’s company.” 

Tressilian again answered him, that he would proceed with 
great caution, and that he should have no fears on his account; 
in short, he bestowed on him all the customary assurances with 
which those who are determined on a rash action, are wont to 
parry the advice of their friends. 

Meantime, the traveler accepted the landlord’s invitation, 
and had just finished the excellent breakfast which was served 
to him and Gosling by pretty Cicely, the beauty of the bar 
when the hero of the preceding night, Michael Lambourne, 
etered the apartment. His toilette had apparently cost him, 
some labor, for his clothes, which differed from those he wore 
on his journey, were of the newest fashion, and put on with 
great attention to the display of his person, 


KENILWORTH. 21 


» By my faith, uncle,” said the gallant, “you made a wet 
night of it, and I feel it followed by a dry morning. I. will 
pledge you willingly in a cup of bastard.—How, my pretty coz, 
Cicely ! why, I left you but a child in the cradle, and. there 
thou stand’st in thy velvet waistcoat, as tight a girl as England’s 
sun shines on. Know thy friends and kindred, Cicely, and come 
hither, child, that I may kiss thee, and give thee my. blessing.” 
“Concern not yourself about Cicely, kinsman,” said Giles 
Gosling, “but e’en let her go her way, o’ God’s name; for 
although your mother were her father’s sister, yet that shall not 
make you and her cater-cousins.” é 
“Why, uncle,” replied Lambourne, “ think’st thou I am an 
infidel, and would harm those of mine own house?” 
‘“‘ It is for no harm that I speak, Mike,” answered his uncle, 
“but a simple humor of precaution whichI have. ‘True, thou 
art as well gilded asa snake when he casts his old slough in 
the spring-time, but for all that, thou creepest not into my Eden. 
I will look after mine Eve, Mike, and so content thee—But 
how brave thou be’st, lad! To look on thee now, and compare 
thee with Master Tressilian here, in his sad-colored_ riding 
suit, who would not say that thou wert the real gentleman, and 
he the tapster’s boy?” 
. “Troth, uncle,” replied Lambourne, “ no one would say so 
but one of your country breeding, that knows no better. I will 
say, and I care not who hears me, there is something about the 
real gentry that few men come up to that are not born and bred 
to'the mystery. I wot not where the trick lies ; but although 
I can enter an ordinary with as much audacity, rebuke the waiters 
and drawers as loudly, drink as deep a health, swear as round 
an oath, and fling my gold as freely about as any of the jingling 
spurs and white feathers that are around me,—yet, hang me if 
I can ever catch the true grace of it, though I have practiced 
an hundred times. The man of the house sets me lowest at the 
board, and carves to me the last ; and the drawer says,—‘ Coming, 
friend,’ without any more reverence or regardful addition. | But 
hang it, let it pass ; care killed acat. Ihave gentry enough to 
pass the trick on Tony Fire-the-Fagot, and that will do for the 
matter in hand.” 

“ You hold your purpose, then, of visiting your old acquaint- 
ance ?” said Tressilian to the adventure. | 

* Ay, sit,” replied Lambourne ; “ when stakes are made, the 
game. must be played; that is gamester’s law, all over the 
world. You, sir, unless my memory fails me (for I did steep 
it somewhat too deeply in the sack-butt), took some share in 
my hazard?” | 


22 KENILWORTH. 


“T propose to accompany you in your adventure,” said 
Tressilian, “‘ if you will do me so much grace as to permit me ; 
and I have staked my share of the forfeit in the hands of our 
worthy host.” 

“That he hath,’ answered Giles Gosling, ‘in as fair Harry- 
nobles as ever were melted into sack bya good fellow. So, luck 
to your enterprise, since you will needs venture on ‘Tony Foster; 
but, by my credit, you had better take another draught before 
you depart, for your welcome at the Hall, yonder, will be some- 
what of the driest. And if you do get into peril, beware of 
taking to cold steel ; but send for me, Giles Gosling the head- 
borough, and I may be able to make something out of Tony 
yet, for as proud as he is.” 

The nephew dutifully obeyed his uncle’s hint, by taking a 
second powerful pull at the tankard, observing, that his wit 
never served him so well as when he had washed his temples 
with a deep morning’s draught ;—and they set forth together 
for the habitation of Anthony Foster. 

The village of Cumnor is pleasantly built ona hill, andina 
wooded park closely adjacent was situated the ancient mansion 
occupied at this time by Anthony Foster, of which the ruins 
may be still extant. The park was then full of large trees, 
and, in particular, of ancient and mighty oaks, which stretched 
their giant arms over the high walls surrounding the demesne, 
thus giving it a melancholy, secluded, and monastic appearance, 
The entrance to the park lay through an old-fashioned gateway 
in the outer wall, the door of which was formed of two huge 
oaken leaves, thickly studded with nails, like the gate of an old 
town. 

“We shali be finely holped up here,” said Michael Lam- 
bourne, looking at the gateway and gate, “if this fellow’s 
suspicious humor should refuse us admission altogether, as it 
is like he may, in case this linsey-wolsey fellow of a mercer’s 
visit to his premises has disquieted him. But, no,” he added, 
pushing the huge gate, which gave way, “the door stands 
invitingly open, and here we are within the forbidden ground, 
without other impediment than the passive resistance of a heavy 
oak door, moving on rusty hinges.” 

They stood now in an avenue overshadowed by such old trees 
as we have described, and which had been bordered at one 
time by high hedges of yew and holly. - But these, having been 
untrimmed for many years, had run up into great bushes, or 
rather dwarf-trees, and now encroached with their dark and 
melancholy boughs upon the roadwhich they once had screened. 
The avenue itself was grown up with grass, and, in one or two 


KENILWORTH. 23 


places, interrupted by piles of withered brushwood, which had 
been lopped from the trees cut down in the neighboring park, 
and was here stacked for drying. Formal walks and avenues, 
which at different points, crossed this principal approach, were, 
in like manner, choked up and interrupted by piles of brushwood 
and billets, and in other places by underwood and brambles. 
Besides the general effect of desolation which is so strongly 
impressed, whenever we behold the contrivances of man wasted 
and obliterated by neglect, and witness the marks of social life 
effaced gradually by the influence of vegetation, the size of the 
trees and the outspreading extent of their boughs, diffused a 
gloom over the scene, even when the sun was at the highest, 
and made a proportional impression on the mind of those who 
visited it. This was felt even by Michael Lambourne, however 
alien his habits were to receiving impressions, excepting from 
things which addressed themselves immediately to his passions. 

“ This wood is as dark as a wolf’s mouth,” said he to Tres- 
silian, as they walked together slowly along the solitary and 
broken approach, and had just come in sight of the monastic 
front of the old mansion, with its shafted windows, brick walls 
overgrown with ivy and creeping shrubs, and twisted stalks of 
chimneys of heavy stonework. ‘And yet,’ continued Lam- 
bourne, ‘it is fairly done on the part of Foster too ; for since 
he chooses not visitors, it is right to keep his place in a fashion 
that will invite few to trespass upon his privacy. But had he 
been the Anthony I once knew him, these sturdy oaks had long 
since become the property of some honest woodmonger, and the 
manor-close here had looked lighter at midnight than it now 
does at noon, while Foster played fast and loose with the price, 
in some cunning corner in the purlieus of Whitefriars.” 

“Was he then such an unthrift ?” asked Tressilian. 

* He was,” answered Lambourne, like the rest of us, no 
saint, and no saver. But what I liked worst of Tony was, that 
he loved to take his pleasure by himself, and grudged, as men 
say, every drop of water that went past his own mill. I have 
known him deal with such measures of wine when he was alone, 
as I would not have ventured on with aid of the best toper in 
Berkshire ;—that, and some sway toward superstition, which 
he had by temperament, rendered him unworthy the company of 
a good fellow. And now he has earthed himself here, in a den 
just befitting such a sly fox as himself.” 

“May I ask you, Master Lambourne,” said Tressilian, ‘‘since 
your old companion’s humor jumps so little with your own, 
wherefore you are so desirous to renew acquaintance with him ?” 
_ .“And may Lask you, in return, Master Tressilian,” answered 


24 KENILWORTH. 


Lambourne, “ Wherefore you have shown yourself so desirous to 
accompany me on this party ?” 

“I told you my motive,” said Tressilian, when I took share 
in your wager,—it was simple curiosity.” 

“La you there now ?” answered Lambourne : “see how you 
civil and discreet gentlemen think to use us who live by the free 
exercise of our wits ! Had I answered your question by saying 
that it was simple curiosity which led me to visit my old com- 
rade Anthony Foster, I warrant you had set it down for an eva- 
sion and a turn of my trade. But my answer, I suppose, must 
serve my turn.” 

‘And wherefore should not bare curiosity,” said Tressilian, 
“be a sufficient reason for my taking this walk with you ?” 

“Oh, content yourself, sir,” replied Lambourne ; “ you can- 
not put the change on me so easy as you think, for I have 
lived among the quick-stirring spirits of the age too Jong, to 
swallow chaff for grain. You are a gentleman of birth and 
breeding—your bearing makes it gocd ; of civil habits and fair 
reputation—your manners declare it, and my uncle avouches 
it ; and yet you associate yourself with a sort of scant-of-grace, 
as men call me ; and, knowing me to be such, you make your- 
self my companion in a visit to a man whom you are a stranger 
to,—and all out of mere curiosity, forsooth !—The excuse, if 
curiously balanced, would be found to want some scruples of 
just weight, or so.” 

“If your suspicions were just,” said Tressilian, “ you have 
shown no confidence in me to invite or deserve mine.” 

“Oh, if that be all,”’ said Lambourne, “my motives lie above 
water, While this gold of mine lasts,” —taking out his purse, 
chucking it into the air, and catching it as it fell,—I will make it 
buy pleasure, and when it is out, Imust have more. Now, if this 
mysterious Lady of the Manor—this fair Lindabrides of Tony 
Fire-the-Fagot, be so admirable a piece as men say, why there’s 
chance that she may aid me to melt my nobles into groats ; and, 
again, if Anthony be so wealthy a chuff as report speaks him, he 
may prove the philosopher’s stone to me, and convert my groats 
into fair rose-nobles again.” 

“ A comfortable proposal truly,” said Tressilian ; “ but I see 
not what chance there is of accomplishing it.” 

“‘ Not to-day or perchance to-morrow,” answered Lambourne ; 
**T expect not to catch the old jack till I have disposed my 
ground baits handsomely. But I know something more of his 
affairs this morning than I did last night, and I will so use my 
knowledge that he shall think it more perfect than it is.—Nay, 
without expecting either pleasure or profit, or both, I had not 


KENILWORTH. 25 


stepped a stride within this manor, [ can tell you ; for I prom- 
ise you I hold our visit not altogether without risk. But here 
we are, and we must make the best on’t.” 

While he thus spoke, they had entered a large orchard which 
surrounded the house on two sides, though the trees, abandoned 
by the care of man, were over-grown and mossy, and seemed to 
bear little fruit. Those which had been formerly trained as 
espaliers, had now resumed their natural mode of growing, and 
exhibited grotesque forms, partaking of the original training 
which they had received. The greater part of the ground, which 
had once been parterres and flower-gardens, was suffered in 
like manner to run to waste, excepting a few patches which had 
been dug up, and planted with ordinary pot-herbs. Some statues, 
which had ornamented the garden in its days of splendor, 
were now thrown down from their pedestals and broken in pieces, 
and a large summer-house,having a heavy stone front, decorated 
with carving, representing the life and actions of Samson, was in 
the same dilapidated condition. 
| They had just traversed this garden of the sluggard, and 

were within a few steps of the door of the mansion, when Lam- 
bourne had ceased speaking ; a circumstance very agreeable to 
Tressilian, as it saved him the embarrassment of either comment- 
ing upon or replying to the frank avowal which his companion 
had just made of the sentiments and views which induced him to 
come hither. Lambourne knocked roundly and boldly at the 
huge door of the mansion, observing at the same time, he had 
seen a less strong one upon a county jail. It was not until 
they had knocked more than once, that an aged sour-visaged 
domestic reconnoitred them through a small square hole in the 
door, well secured with bars, and demanded what they wanted. 

*‘ To speak with Master Foster instantly, on pressing business 
of the state,”’ was the ready reply of Michael Lambourne. 

“ Methinks you will find difficulty to make that good,” said 
Tressilian in a whisper to his companion, while the servant went 
to carry the message to his master. 

“Tush,” replied the adventurer ; “‘ no soldier would go on 
were he always to consider when and how he should come off. 
Let us once obtain entrance, and all will go well enough.” 

In a short time the servant returned, and drawing with a 
careful hand both bolt and bar, opened the gate, which ad- 
mitted them through an archway into a square court, sur 
rounded by buildings. Opposite to the arch was another door, 
which the serving-man in like manner unlocked, and thus ia- 
troduced them into a stone-paved parlor, where there was but 
Jittle furniture, and that of the rudest and most ancient fashion, 


26 KL NILWORTH. 


The windows were tall and ample, reaching almost to the roof 
of the room which was composed of black oak; those opening 
to the quadrangle were obscured by the height of the surround- 
ing buildings, and, as they were traversed with massive shafts 
of solid stone-work, and thickly painted with religious devices, 
and scenes taken from Scripture history, by no means admitted 
light in proportion to their size ; and what did penetrate through 
them, partook of the dark and gloomy tinge of the stained glass. 
Tressilian and his guide had time enough to observe all 
these particulars, for they waited some space in the apartment 
ere the present master of the mansion at length made his 
appearance. Prepared as he was to see an inauspicious and 
ill-looking person, the ugliness of Anthony Foster considerably 
exceeded what Tressilian had anticipated. He was of middle 
stature, built strongly, but so clumsily as to border on deform- 
ity, and to give all his motions the ungainly awkwardness of 
a left-legged and left-handed man. His hair, in arranging 
which, men at that time, as at present, were very nice and 
curious, instead of being carefully cleaned and disposed into 
short curls, or else set up on end, as is represented in old paint- 
ings in a manner resembling that used by fine gentlemen of 
our own day, escaped in sable negligence from under a furred 
bonnet, and hung in elf-locks, which seemed strangers to the 
comb, over his rugged brows, and around his very singular and 
unprepossessing countenance. His keen dark eyes were deep 
set beneath broad and shaggy eyebrows, and as they were 
usually bent on the ground, seemed as if they were themselves 
ashamed of the expression natural to them, and were desirous - 
to conceal it from the observation of men. At times, however, 
when, more intent on observing others, he suddenly raised 
them, and fixed them keenly on those with whom he conversed, 
they seemed to express both the fiercer passions, and the power 
of mind which could at will suppress or disguise the intensity 
of inward feeling. The features which corresponded with these 
eyes and this form were irregular, and marked so as to be 
indelibly fixed on the mind of him who had once seen them, 
Upon the whole, as Tressilian could not help acknowledging to 
himself, the Anthony Foster who now stood before them was 
the last person, judging from personal appearance, upon whom 
one would have chosen to intrude an unexpected and undesired 
visit. His attire was a doublet of russet leather, like those worn 
by the better sort of country folk, girt with a buff belt, in which 
was stuck on the right side a long knife or’ dudgeon dagger, 
and on the other acutlass. He raised his eyes as he entered the 
room, and fixed a keenly penetrating glance upon his two 


KENILWORTH. 24 


visitors, then cast them down as if counting his steps, while he 
advanced slowly into the middle of the room, and said, in a low 
and smothered tone of voice, ‘‘ Let me pray you, gentlemen, to 
tell me the cause of this visit.” 

He looked as if he expected the answer from Tressilian; so 
true was Lambourne’s observation, that the superior air of 
breeding and dignity shone through the disguise of an inferio1 
dress. But it was Michael who replied to him, with: the easy 
familiarity of an old friend, and a tone which seemed unembar- 
rassed by any doubt of the most cordial reception. 

‘Ha! my dear friend and ingle, Tony Foster!” he exclaimed, 
seizing upon the unwilling hand, and shaking it with such em- 
phasis as almost to stagger the sturdy frame of the person 
whom he addressed ; how fares it with you for many a long 
year ?—What ! have you altogether forgotten your friend, gossip, 
and playfellow, Michael Lambourne ?” 

“Michael Lambourne !” said Foster, looking at him a 
moment ; then dropping his eyes, and with little ceremony 
extricating his hand from the friendly grasp of the person by 
whom he was addressed, ‘ are you Michael Lambourne ?” ; 

*¢ Ay ; sure as you are Anthony Foster,” replied Lambourne. 

“*Tis well,” answered his sullen host ; “and what may 
Michael Lambourne expect from his visit hither ?” 

“ Voto a Dios,” answered Lambourne, ‘‘I expected a better 
welcome than I am like to meet, I think.” 

“Why, thou gallows bird-—thou jail-rat—thou friend of the 
hangman and his customers,” replied Foster, hast thou the 
assurance to expect countenance from any one whose neck is 
beyond the compass of a Tyburn tippet ?” 

“Tt may be with me as you say,” replied Lambourne; “ and 
suppose I grant it to be so for argument’s sake, I were still good 
enough society for mine ancient friend Anthony Fire-the-Fagot, 
though he be, for the present, by some indescribable title, the 
master of Cumnor Place.” 

“ Hark you, Michael Lambourne,” said Foster; “you are a 
gambler now, and live by the counting of chances—Compute 
me the odds that I do not, on this instant, throw you out of 
that window into the ditch there.” 

“Twenty to one that you do not,” answered the sturdy 
visitor. 

“ And wherefore, I pray you ?”? demanded Anthony Foster, 
setting his teeth, and compressing his lips, like one who endeav- 
ors to suppress some violent internal emotion. 

“‘ Because,” said Lambourne, coolly, *‘ you dare not for your 
life lay a finger on me. I am younger and stronger than you, 


28 KENILWORTH. if 


and have in me a double portion of the fighting devil, though 
not, it may be, quite so much of the undermining fiend, that 
finds an underground way to his purpose—who hides halters 
under folk’s pillows, and who puts ratsbane into their porridge, 
as the stage play says.” 

Foster looked at him earnestly, then turned away, and paced 
the room twice, with the same steady and considerate pace 
with which he had entered it; then suddenly came back, and 
extended his hand to Michael Lambourne, saying, ‘* Be not 
wroth wih me, good Mike; I did but try whether thou hadst 
parted with aught of thine old and honorable frankness, which 
your enviers and backbiters called saucy impudence.” 

“Let them call it what they will,” said Michael Lambourne, 
“it is the commodity we must carry through the world with 
us.—Uds daggers! I tell thee, man, mine own stock of assur- 
ance was too small to trade upon ! I was fain to take in a ton 
or two more of brass at every port where I touched in the voyage 


of life; and I started overboard what modesty and scruples I 


had remaining, in order to make room for the stowage.” 

“Nay, nay,” replied Foster, “ touching scruples and modesty, 
you sailed hence in ballast—But who is this gallant, honest 
Mike ?—is he a Corinthian—a cutter like thyself?” 

“JT prithee, know Master Tressilian, bully Foster,” replied 
Lambourne, presenting his friend in answer to his friend’s 
question ; “ know him and honor him, for he is a gentleman 
of many admirable quaiities ; and though he traffics not in ‘my 
iine of business, at least so far as I know, he has, nevertheless, 
a just respect and admiration for artists of our class. — He will 
come to in time, as seldom fails; but as yet he is only a 
Neophyte, only a proselyte, and frequents the company of cocks 
of the game, as a puny fencer does the schools of the masters, 
to see how a foil is handled by the teachers of defence.” 

“If such be his quality, I will pray your company in another 
chamber, honest Mike, for what I have to say to thee is for thy 
private ear.—Meanwhile, I pray you, sir, to abide us in this 
apartment, and without leaving it—there be those in this house 
who would be alarmed by the sight of a stranger.” 

Tressilian acquiesced, and the two worthies ieft the apart- 
ment ‘together, in which he remained alone to await their re- 
turn.* | 


* Note B. Foster, Lambourne, and the Black Bear. 


KENILWORTH. 29 


CHAPTER FOURTH. 


Not serve two masters ?—Here’s a youth will try it— 
Would fain serve God, yet give the devil his due: 
Says grace before he doth a deed of villainy, 
And returns his thanks devoutly when ’tis acted. 
OLD PLAY, 


THE room into which the Master of Cumnor Place conducted . 
his worthy visitant, was of greater extent than that in which 
they had first conversed, and had yet more the appearance of 
dilapidation. Large oaken presses, filled with shelves of the 
same wood, surrounded the room, and had, at one time, served 
for the arrangement of a numerous collection of books, many of 
which yet remained, but torn and defaced, covered with dust, 
deprived of their costly clasps and bindings, and tossed together 
in heaps upon the shelves, as things altogether disregarded, 
and abandoned to the pleasure of every spoiler. The very 
presses themselves seemed to have incurred the hostility of 
those enemies of learning, who had destroyed the volumes with 
which they had been heretofore filled. They were in several 
places dismantled of their shelves, and otherwise broken, and 
damaged, and were moreover, mantled with cobwebs, and 
covered with dust. 

*¢’The men who wrote these books,” said Lambourne, looking 
round him, “ little thought whose keeping they were to fall 
into.” 

“Nor what yeoman’s service they were to do me,” quoth 
Anthony Foster—‘ the cook hath used them for scouring his 
pewter, and the groom hath had nought else to clean my boots 
with this many a month past.” 

“And yet,” said Lambourne, “I have been in cities where 
such learned commodities would have been deemed too good 
for such offices.” 

“‘Pshaw, pshaw,” answered Foster, “ they are Popish trash, 
every one of them,—private studies of the mumping old Abbot 
of Abingdon. The nineteenthly of a pure gospel sermon 
were worth a cart-load of such rakings of the kennel of Rome.” 

“‘ Gad-a-mercy, Master Tony Fire-the-Fagot !”’ said Lam- 
bourne, by way of reply. 

Foster scowled darkly at him, as he replied, “‘ Hark ye, friend 
‘Mike ; forget that name, and the passage which it relates. to, if 


30 KENILWORTH. 


you would not have our newly revived comradeship die a sudden 
and a violent death.” 

“Why,” said Michael Lambourne, “ you were wont to glory 
in the share you had in the death of the two old heretical 
bishops.” 

“That,” said his comrade, “was while I was in the gall of 
bitterness and bond of iniquity, and applies not to my walk or 
my ways, now that I am called forth into the lists. Mr. 
Melchisedek Maultext compared my misfortune in that matter 
to that of the Apostle Paul, who kept the clothes of the wit- 
nesses who stoned Saint Stephen. He held forth on the matter 
three Sabbaths past, and illustrated the same by the conduct of 
an honorable person present, meaning me.” 

‘“‘T prithee peace, Foster,” said Lambourne, ‘ for I know not 
how it is, I have a sort of creeping comes over my skin when I 
hear the Devil quote Scripture ; and beside, man, how couldst 
thou have the heart to quit that convenient old religion, which 
you could so slip off or on as easily as your glove? Do I not 
remember how you were wont to carry your conscience to con 
fession, as duly as the month came round? and when thou 
hadst it scoured, and burnished, and whitewashed by the priest 
thou wert ever ready for the worst villainy which could be devised 
like a child who is always readiest to rush into the mire when 
he has got his Sunday’s clean jerkin on. ” 

“Trouble not thyself about my conscience,” said Foster, “ it 
is a thing thou canst not understand, having never had one of 
thine own; but let us rather to the point, and say to me in one 
word, what is thy business with me, and what hopes have drawn 
thee hither?” | 

“The hope of bettering myself, to be sure, ” answered Lam- 
bourne, “asthe old woman said, when she leapt over the bridge 
at Kingston. Look you, this purse has all that is left of as 
round a sum as a man would wish to carry in his slop-pouch. 
You are here well established, it would seem, and, as I think, 
well befriended, for men talk of your being under some special 
protection; nay, stare not like a pig that is stuck, mon, 
thou canst not dance in a net and they not see thee. Now I 
know such protection is not purchased for nought ; you must. 
have services to render for it, and in these I propose to help 
thee.” 

“‘ But how if I lack no assistance from thee, Mike? I think 
thy modesty might suppose that were a case possible. ” 

“That is to say,” retorted Lambourne, “that you would 
engross the whole work, rather than divide the reward—but be 
not over-greedy, Anthony, Covetousness bursts the sack, and 


RENILWORTH. 31 


spills the grain. Look you, when the huntsman goes to killa 
stag, he takes with him more dogs than one.—He has the 
stanch lyme-hound to track the wounded buck over hill and 
dale, but he hath also the fleet gaze-hound to kill him at view. 
Thou art the lyme-hound, I am the gaze-hound, and thy patron 
will need the aid of both, and can well afford to requite it. 
Thou hast deep sagacity—an unrelenting purpose—a steady 
long-breathed malignity of nature, that surpasses mine. But 
then I am the bolder, the more ready, both at action and ex- 
pedient. Separate, our properties are not so perfect ; but unite 
them, and we drive the world before us. How sayest thou—~ 
.shall we hunt in couples?” 

“Tt is a currish proposal—thus to thrust thyself upon my 
private matters,” replied Foster; “‘ but thou wert ever an ill 
nurtured whelp. ” 

“Vou shall have no cause to say so, unless you spurn my 
courtesy,” said Michael Lambourne ; “ but if so, keep thee well 
from me, Sir Knight, as'the romance has it. I will either 
share your counsels or traverse them; for I have come here to 
be busy, either with thee or against thee.” 

“ Well,’ said Anthony Foster, ‘since thou dost leave me so 
fair a choice, I will rather be thy friend than thine enemy. 
‘Thou art right ; I caz prefer thee to the service of a patron, 
who has enough of means to make us both, and an hundred 
more. And, to say truth, thou art well qualified for his service. 
Boldness and dexterity he demands—the justice-books bear 
witness in thy favor; no starting at scruples in his service— 
why, who ever suspected thee of a conscience ?—an assurance 
he must have, who would follow a courtier—and thy brow is as 
impenetrable as a Milan visor. There is but one thing I would 
fain see amended in thee.” 

And what is that, my most precious friend Anthony?” 
replied Lambourne ; “for I swear by the pillow of the seven 
Sleepers, I will not be slothful in amending it.” 

“Why, you gave a sample of it even now,” said Foster. 
* Your speech twangs too much of the old stamp, and you 
garnish it ever and anon with singular oaths that savor of 
Papistrie. Besides, your exterior man is altogether too de- 
boshed and irregular to become one of his lordship’s followers, 
since he has a reputation to keep up in the eye of the world. 
You must somewhat reform your dress, upon a more grave and, 
composed fashion; wear your cloak on both shoulders, and 
your falling band unrumpled and well starched—You must 
enlarge the brim of your beaver, and diminish the superfluity 
of your trunk-hose—go to church, or, which will be better, to 


32 KENILWORTH. 


meeting, at least once a-month—protest only upon your faith 
and conscience—lay aside your swashing look, and never touch 
the hilt of your sword, but when you would draw the carnal 
weapon in good earnest.” 

‘“‘ By this light, Anthony, thou art mad,” answered Lam- 
bourne, ‘‘ and hast described rather the gentleman-usher to a 
puritan’s wife, than the follower of an ambitious courtier ! Yes, 
such a thing as thou wouldst make of me, should wear a book 
at his girdle, instead of a poniard, and might just be suspected 
of manhood enough to squire a proud dame-citizen to the lec- 
ture at Saint Antonlin’s, and quarrel in her cause with any flat- 
capp’d thread-maker that would take the wall of her. Hemust 
ruffle it in another sort that would walk to court in a nobleman’s 
train.” 

“Oh, content you, sir,” replied Foster, “ there is a change 
since you the knew the English world ; and there are those who 
can hold their way through the boldest courses, and the most 
secret, and yet never a swaggering word, or an oath, or a profane 
word in their conversation.” 

“That is to say,” replied Lambourne, “ they are in a trading 
copartnery, to do the devil’s business without mentioning his 
name in the firm ?—Well, I will do my best to counterfeit rather 
rather than lose ground in this new world, since thou sayest it 
is grown so precise, But, Anthony, what is the name of this 
nobleman, in whose service I am to turn hypocrite? ” 

“Aha! Master Michael, are you there with your bears?” 
said Foster, with a grim smile; ‘‘ and this is the knowledge you 
pretend of my concernments ?—How know you now there is 
such a person zz rerum natura, and that I have not been put- 
ting a jape upon you all this time ?”’ 

“Thou put a jape upon me, thou sodden-brained gull ?” an- 
swered Lambourne, nothing daunted ; “why, dark and muddy 
as thou think’st thyself, I would engage in a day’s space to see 
as clear through thee and thy concernments, as thou call’st them, 
as through the filthy horn of an old stable lantern.” 

At this moment their conversation was interrupted by a 
scream from the next apartment. 

“By the holy cross of Abingdon,” exclaimed Anthony 
Foster, forgetting his Protestantism in his alarm, “I am a 
ruined man!” 

So saying, he rushed into the apartment whence the scream 
issued, followed by Michael Lambourne. But to account for 
the sounds which interrupted their conversation, it is necessary 
to recede a little way in our narrative. 

It has been already observed, that when Lambourne accom 


KENILWORTH. 33 


panied Foster into the library, they left Tressilian alone in the 
ancient parlor. His dark eye followed them forth of the 
apartment with a glance of contempt, a part of which his mind 
instantly transferred to himself for having stooped to be even 
for a moment their familiar companion, ‘‘ These are the 
associates, Amy,”—it was thus he communed with himself,— 
“to which thy cruel levity—thine unthinking and most un- 
merited falsehood has condemned him, of whom his friends 
once hoped for other things, and who now scorns himself, as he 
will be scorned by others, for the baseness he stoops to for the 
love of thee! But I will not leave the pursuit of thee, once the 
object of my purest and most devoted aflection, though to me 
thou canst henceforth be nothing but a thing to weep over—l 
will save thee from thy betrayer, and from thyself—I will 
restore thee to thy parents—to thy God. I cannot bid the 
bright star again sparkle in the sphere it has shot from 
but ’?—— 

A slight noise in the apartment interrupted his reverie ; he 
looked round, and in the beautiful and richly-attired female 
who entered at that instant by a side-door, he recognized the 
abject of his search. ‘The first impulse arising from this discov- 
ery urged him to conceal his face with the collar of his cloak, 

~ until he should find a favorable moment of making himself 

“known. But his purpose was disconcerted by the young lady 

<) Ghe was not above eighteen years old), who ran joyfully toward 
him, and pulling him by the cloak, said playfully, “Nay, my 

ne sweet friend, after I have waited for you so long, you come not 

~= to my bower to play the masker—You are arraigned of treason 
to true love and fond affection ; and you must stand up at the 
bar, and answer it with face uncovered—how say you, guilty or 
not?” 

“Alas, Amy !” said Tressilian, in a low and melancholy tone, 
as he suffered her to draw the mantle from his face. ‘The sound 
of his voice, and still more the unexpected sight of his face, 
changed in an instant the lady’s playful mood—She staggered 
back, turned as pale as death, and put her hands before her 
face. ‘Tressilian was himself for a moment much overcome, 
but seeming suddenly to remember the necessity of using an 
opportunity which might not again occur, he said in a low tone, 
“« Amy, fear me not.” 

“Why should I fear you?” said the lady, withdrawing her 
hands from her beautiful face, which was now covered with 
crimson,—“ why should I fear you, Mr. Tressilian ?—or where- 
fore have you intruded yourself into my dwelling, uninvited, sit, 
and unwished for?” 


34. KENILWORTH. 


“Your dwelling, Amy !” said Tressilian. ‘“ Alas ! is a prison 
your dwelling ?—a prison, guarded by one of the most sordid of 
men, but not a greater wretch than his employer !” 

« This house is mine,” said Amy, *‘ mine while I choose to 
inhabit it—If it is my pleasure to live in seclusion, who shal] 
gainsay me ?” 

“Your father, maiden,” answered Tressilian, “* your broken« 
hearted father ; who despatched me in quest of you with that 
authority which he cannot exert in person. Here is his letter, 
written while he blessed his pain of body which somewhat 
stunned the agony of his mind.” 

“The pain !—is my father then ill? ” said the lady. 

‘So ill,” answered Tressilian, “ that even your utmost haste 
may not restore him to health, but all shall be instantly pre- 
pared for your departure the instant you yourself will give 
consent.” 

“Tressilian,” answered the lady, “ I cannot, I must not, I 
dare not leave this place. Go back to my father—tell him I 
will obtain leave to see him within twelve hours from hence. Go 
back, Tressilian—tell him I am weil, I am happy—happy could 
I think he was so—tell him not to fear that I will come, and in 
such a manner that all the grief Amy has given him shall be for- 
gotten—the poor Amy is now greater than she dare name.—Go, 
good Tressilian—I have injured thee too, but believe me I have 
power to heal the wounds I have caused—lI robbed: you of a 
childish heart, which was not worthy of you, and I can repay 
the loss with honors and advancement.” 

‘Do you say this to me, Amy ?——Do you offer me pageants 
of idle ambition, for the quiet peace you have robbed me of ?— 
But be it so—I came not to upbraid, but to serve and to free 
you.—You cannot disguise it from me; you are a prisoner. 
Otherwise your kind heart—for it was once a kind heart—would 
have been already at your father’s bed-side.—Come—poor, 
deceived, unhappy maiden !—all shall be forgot—all shall be 
forgiven. Fear not my importunity for what regarded our 
contract—It was a dream, and I have awaked—But come— 
your father yet lives—Come, and one word of affection—one 
tear of penitence, will efface the memory of all that has 
passed.” 

“Have I not already said, Tressilian,” replied she, “ that I 
will surely come to my father, and that without further delay 
than is necessary to discharge other and equally binding duties 
—Go, carry him the news—I come as sure as there is light in 
heaven—that i is, when I obtain permission.” 

“ Permission !—permission to visit your father on his ue 


KENILWORTH, 35 


bed, perhaps on his death-bed! ” repeated Tressilian impatiently ; 
“and permission from whom ?—From the villain who, under 
disguise of friendship, abused every duty of hospitality, and 
stole thee from thy father’s roof!” 

“ Do him no slander, Tressilian !—He whom thou speakest of 
wears a sword as sharp as thine—sharper, vain man—for the 
best deeds thou hast ever done in peace or war, were as unworthy 
to be named with his, as thy obscure rank to match itself with 
the sphere he moves in.—Leave me! Go, do mine errand to my 
father, and when he next sends to me let him choose a more 
welcome messenger.”’ 

“ Amy,” replied Tressilian, calmly, “ thou canst not move 
me by thy reproaches.—Tell me one thing, that I may bear at 
least one ray of comfort to my aged friend—This rank of his 
which thou dost boast—dost thou share it with him, Amy ?— 
Does he claim a husband’s right to control thy motions?” 

** Stop thy base unmannered tongue!” said the lady; “ to 
no question that derogates from my honor do I deign an 
answer,” 

“You have said enough in refusing to reply,” answered 
Tressilian ; “ and mark me, unhappy as thou art, I am armed 
with thy father’s full authority to command thy obedience, and 
I will save thee from the slavery oi sin and of sorrow, even 
dispite of thyself, Amy.” 

“ Menace no violence here!” exclaimed the lady, drawing 
back from him, and alarmed at the determination expressed in 
his look and manner ; “‘ threaten me not, Tressilian, for I have 
means to repel force.” 

‘‘ But not, I trust, the wish to use them in so evil a cause?” 
said Tressilian. ‘ With thy will—thine uninfluenced, free, 
and natural will, Amy, thou canst not choose this state of 
slavery and dishonor—thou hast been bound by some spell— 
entrapped by some deceit—art now detained by some compelled 
vow.—But thus I break the charm—Amy, in the name of thine 
excellent, thy broken-hearted father, I command thee to follow 
me!” 

As he spoke, he advanced and extended his arm, as with the 
purpose of laying hold upon her. But she shrunk back from 
his grasp and uttered the scream which, as we before noticed, 
brought into the apartment Lambourne and Foster. 

The latter exclaimed, as soon as he entered, “ Fire and fagot! 
what have we here ?”’ ‘Then, addressing the ‘lady i in a tone be- 
twixt entreaty and command, he added, ‘ Uds precious !madam, 
what make you here out of bounds ?—Retire—retire—there 
as life and death in this matter.—And you, friend, whoever you 


36 KENILWORTH. 


may be, leave this house—out with you, before my dagger’s hilt 
and your costard become acquainted—Draw, Mike, and rid us 
of the knave !” 

“Not I, on my soul,” replied Lambourne ; “‘ he came hither 
in my company, and he is safe from me by cutter’s law, at 
least till we meet again.—But hark ye, my Cornish comrade, 
you have brought a Cornish flaw of wind with you hither, a 
hurricanoe as they call it in the Indies. Make yourself scarce 
—depart—vanish—or we’ll have you summoned before the 
Mayor of Halgaver, and that before Dudman and Ramhead 
Cet aon 

‘¢ Away, base groom !”’ said Tressilian—“ And you, madam, 
fare you well—what life lingers in your Sige bosom. will 
leave him at the news I have to tell.” 

He departed, the lady saying faintly as he left the room, 
‘*«Tressilian, be not rash—say no scandal of me.” 

“‘ Here is proper gear,” said Foster. ‘‘ I pray you go to your 
chamber, my lady, and let us consider how this is to be answered 
—nay, tarry not.” 

‘“‘T move not at your command, sir,” answered the lady. 

“* Nay, but you must, fair lady,” replied Foster ; ““ excuse my 
freedom, but, by blood and nails, this is no time to strain 
courtesies—you must go to your chamber.—Mike, follow that 
meddling coxcomb, and as you desire to thrive, see him safely’ 
clear of the premises, while I bring this headstrong lady to 
reason.——Draw thy tool, man, and after him.” 

“T’ll follow him, said Michael Lambourne, “ and see him 
fairly out of Flanders—But for hurting a man I have drunk my 
morning’s draught withal, ’tis clean against my conscience,” so 
saying, he left the apartment. 

Tressilian, meanwhile, with hasty steps, pursued the first path 
which promised to conduct him through the wild and over- 
grown part in which the mansion of Foster was situated. Haste 
and distress of mind led his steps astray, and instead of taking 
the avenue which led toward the village, he chose another, 
which, after he had pursued it for some time with a hasty and 
reckless step, conducted him to the other side of the demesne, 
where a postern-door opened through the wall, and led into the 
open country. 

Tressilian paused an instant. It was indifferent to him by 
what road he left a spot now so odious to his recollections ; but 
it was probable that the postern-door was locked, and his retreat 
by that pass rendered impossible. 


< 


9 


* Two headlands on the Cornish coast, The expressions are proverbial 


a 


KENILWORTH. 37 


**T must make the attempt, however,” he said to himself; 
“the only means of reclaiming this lost—this miserable—this 
still most lovely and most unhappy girl—must rest in her 
father’s appeal to the broken laws of his country—I mush taste 
to apprise him of this heartrending intelligence.” 

As Tressilian, thus conversing with himself, approached te 
try some means of opening the door, or climbing over it, he 
perceived there was a key put into the lock from the outside 
It' turned round, the bolt revolved, and a cavalier who entered, 
muffled in his riding cloak, and wearing a slouched hat, with a 
drooping feather, stood at once within four yards of him who 
was desirous of going out. They exclaimed at once, in tones 
of resentment and surprise, the one ‘“ Varney!” the other 
“'Tressilian !” 

“What make you here?” was the stern question put by the 
stranger to Tressilian, when the moment of surprise was passed, 
— What make you here, where your presence is neither ex- 
pected nor desired?” 

“Nay, Varney,” replied Tressilian, “‘ what make you here? 
Are you come to triumph over the innocence you have de- 
stroyed, as the vulture or carrion-crow comes to batten on the 
lamb, whose eyes it has first plucked out ?—Or are you come to 
encounter the merited vengeance of an honest man?—Draw, 
dog, and defend thyself!” 

Tressilian drew his sword as he spoke, but Varney only laid 
his hand on the hilt of his own, as he replied, “* Thou art mad, 
Tressilian—I own appearances are against me, but by every 
oath a priest can make, or a man can swear, Mistress Amy 
Robsart hath had no injury from me; and in truth I were 
somewhat loath to hurt you in this cause—Thou know’st I can 
fight.” 

“T have heard thee say so, Varney.” replied ‘Tressilian ; 
“but now, methinks, I would fain have some better evidence 
than thine own word.” : 

“That shall not be lacking, if blade and hilt be but true to 
me,” answered Varney ; and drawing his sword with the right 
hand he threw his cloak around his left, and attacked Tres- 
silian with a vigor which for a moment seemed to give him 
the advantage of the combat. But this advantage lasted not 
long. ‘Tressilian added to a spirit determined on revenge, a 
hand and eye admirably well adapted to the use of the rapier; 
so that Varney, finding himself hard pressed in his turn, endeav- 
ored to avail himself of his superior strength, by closing with 
his adversary. For this purpose he hazarded the receiving one 
of Tressilian’s passes ir his cloak, wrapt as it was around his 


38 KENILWORTH. 


arm, and ere his adversary could extricate his rapier thus en- 
tangled, he closed with him, shortening his own sword at the 
same time, with the purpose of dispatching him. But Tres- 
silian was on his guard, and unsheathing his poniard, parried 
with the blade of that weapon the home-thrust which would 
otherwise have finished the combat, and, in the struggle which 
followed, displayed so much address, as might have confirmed 
the opinion that he drew his origin from Cornwall, whose 
natives are such masters in the art of wrestling, as, were the 
game of antiquity revived, might enable them to challenge all 
Europe tothe ring. Varney, in his ill-advised attempt, received 
a fall so sudden and violent, that his sword flew several paces 
from his hand, and ere he could recover his feet, that of his 
antagonist was pointed to his throat. 

“Give me the instant means of relieving the victim of thy 
treachery,” said Tressilian, “ or take the last look of your Crea- 
tor’s blessed sun !”’ 

And while Varney, too confused or too sullen to reply, made 

a sudden effort to arise, his adversary drew back his arm, and ~ 
would have executed his threat, but that the blow was arrested 
by the grasp of Michael Lambourne, who, directed by the 
clashing of swords, had come up just in time to save the life of 
Varney. 

‘“‘ Come, come comrade,” said Lambourne, “ here is enough 
done and more than enoug 
jogging—The Black Bear growls for us.” 

“Off, abject!” said Tressilian, striking himself free of Lam- 
bourne’s grasp; “darest thou come betwixt me and mine 
enemy?” 

“ Abject ! abject !”’ repeated Lambourne; “that shall be 
answered with cold steel whenever a bowl of sack has washed 
out memory of the morning’s draught that we had together. 
In the meanwhile, do you see, shog-stram par Deseret are 
two to one.’ 

He spoke truth, for Varney fad taken the opportunity to 
regain his weapon, and Tressilian perceived it was madness to 
press the quarrel further against such odds.. He took his purse 

from his side, and taking out two gold nobles, flung them to 
Lambourne: “ There, caitiff, is thy morning wage—thou shalt 
not say thou hast been my guide unhired. - Varney, farewell— 
we shail meet where there are none to come betwixt us.” So 
saying, he turned around and departed through the postern-door. 

Varney seemed to want the inclination, or perhaps the power 
(for his fall had been a severe one) to follow his retreating 
enemy. But he glared darkly as he disappeared, and then ad- 


KENILWORTH. 39 
dressed Lambourne; “ Art thou a comrade of Foster’s, good 
fellow?” 

“‘ Sworn friends, as the haft is to the knife,” replied Michael 
Lambourne. 

“ Here is a broad piece for thee—follow yonder fellow, and 
see where he takes earth, and bring me word up to the mansion- 
house here. Cautious and silent, thou knave, as thou valuest 
thy throat. ” 

“* Enough said,” replied Lambourne ; “ I can draw on a scent 
as well as a sleuth-hound.” 

“Begone then,” said Varney, sheathing his rapier; and, 
turning his back on Michael Lambourne, he walked slowly 
toward the house. Lambourne stopped but an instant to 
gather the nobles which his late companion had flung toward 
him so unceremoniously, and muttered to himself, while he put 
them up in his purse along with the gratuity of Varney, “I 
spoke to yonder gulls of Eldorado—By Saint Anthony, there is 
no Eldorado for men of our stamp equal to bonny Old England! 
It rains nobles, by Heaven—they lie on the grass as thick as 
dew-drops—you may have them for gathering. And if I have 
not my share of such glittering dew-drops, may my sword melt 
like an icicle!” 


CHAPTER FIFTH. 


He was a man 

Versed in the world as pilot in his compass, 

The needle pointed ever to that interest 

Which was his loadstar, and he spread his sails 

With vantage to the gale of other’s passion. 

THE DECEIVER—A TRAGEDY. 


ANTHONY Foster was still engaged in debate with his fair 
guest, who treated with scorn every entreaty and request that 
she would retire to her own apartment, when a whistle was 
heard at the entrance-door of the mansion. 

‘‘We are fairly sped now,” said Foster; ‘yonder is thy 
lord’s signal, and what to say about the disorder which has 
happened in this household, by my conscience, I know not. 
Some evil fortune dogs the heels of that unhanged rogue Lam: 
bourne, and he has ’scaped the gallows against every chance, to 
come back and be the ruin of me !” 

* Peace, sir,” said the lady, “ and undo the gate to your 


40 KENILWORTH. 


master.—My lord ! my dear lord!” she then exclaimed, hastem 
ing to the entrance of the apartment ; them added, with a 
voice expressive of disappointment,—“ Pooh ¢ it is but Bipiard 
Varney !” 

‘‘ Ay, madam,” said Varney, entering and saluting the fady 
with a respectful obeisance which she returned with a careless 
mixture of negligence and of displeasure. “It is but Richard 
Varney ; but even the first gray cloud should be acceptable, 
when it lightens in the east, because it announces the approach 
of the blessed sun.” 

‘‘ How ! comes my lord hither to-night ?” said the lady, in 
joyful, yet startled agitation ; and Anthony Foster caught up 
the word, and echoed the question. Varney replied to the lady, 
that his lord purposed to attend her, and would have proceeded 
with some compliment, when, running to the door of the par- 
lor, she called aloud, “* Janet—Janet—-come to my tiring-room 
instantly.” Then returning to Varney, she asked if her lord 
sent any further commendations to her. 

“This letter, honored madam,” said he, taking from his 
bosom a small parcel wrapt in scarlet silk, “and with it a token 
to the Queen of his Affections.” With eager speed the lady 
hastened to undo the silken string which surrounded the little 
packet, and failing to unloose readily the knot with which it 
was secured, she again called loudly on Janet, “ Bring me a 
knife—scissors—aught that may undo this envious knot !” 

‘“May not my poor poniard serve, honored madam ?” said 
Varney, presenting a small dagger of exquisite workmanship, 
which hung in his turkey-leather sword-belt. 

“No, sir,” replied the lady, rejecting the instrument which 
he offered—* Steel poniard shall cut no true love-knot of mine.’ 

“Tt has cut many, however,” said Anthony Foster, half aside, 
and looking at Varney. By this time the knot was disentangled 
without any other help than the neat and nimble fingers of 
Janet, a simply-attired pretty maiden, the daughter of Anthony 
Foster, who came running at the repeated call of her mistress. 
A necklace of orient pearl, the companion of a perfumed billet, 
was now hastily produced from the packet. The lady gave the 
one, after a slight glance, to the charge of her attendant, while 
she read, or rather devoured, the contents of the other. 

‘* Surely, lady,” said Janet, gazing with admiration at the 
neck-string of pearls, “the daughters of Tyre wore no fairer 
neck-jewels than those—And then the posy, ‘For a neck that 
is fairer,’—each pearl is worth a freehold.” 

“Each word in this dear paper, is worth the whole string, 
my girl — But come to my tiring-room, gitl ; we must be brave, 


KENILWORTH. ar 


my lord comes hither to-night.—He bids me grace you, Master 
Varney, and to me his wish is a law.—lI bid you to a collation 
in my bower this afternoon, and you too, Master Foster. Give 
order that all is fitting, and that suitable preparations be made 
for my lord’s reception to-night.” With these words she left 
the apartment. 

“‘ She takes state on her already,” said Varney, “ and distri- 
butes the favor of her presence, as if she were already the 
partner of his dignity.—Well—it is wise to practice beforehand 
the part which fortune prepares us to play—the young eagle 
must gaze at the sun, ere he soars on strong wing to meet 
it.” 

“If holding her head aloft,” said Foster, ‘ will keep her eyes 
from dazzling, I warrant you the dame will not stoop her crest. 
She will presently soar beyond reach of my whistle, Master. 
Varney. I promise you, she holds me already in slight regard.” 

“It is thine own fault, thou sullen uninventive companion,” 
answered Varney, ‘who know’st no mode of control, save down- 
right brute force.—Canst thou not make home pleasant to her 
with music and toys ? Canst thou not. make the_ out-of-doors 
frightful to her, with tales of goblins? Thou livest here by the 
churchyard, and hast not even wit enough to raise a ghost, to 
scare thy females into good discipline.” 

“Speak not thus, Master Varney,” said Foster ; ‘ the living 
I fear not, but I trifle not nor toy with my dead neighbors of 
the churchyard. I promise you, it requires a good heart to live 
so near it: worthy Master Holdforth, the afternoon’s lecturer 
of Saint Antonlin’s, had a sore fright there the last time he came 
to visit me.” 

*“* Hold thy superstitious tongue !”” answered Varney ; “ and 
while thou talk’st of visiting, answer me, thou paltering knave, 
how came Tressilian to be at the postern-door?” 

‘‘ Tressilian !’ answered Foster, ‘“‘ what know J of Tressilian ? 
—I never heard his name.” 

“Why, villain, it was the very Cornish chough to whom old 
Sir Hugh Robsart destined his pretty Amy, and hither the hot- 
brained fool has come to look after his fair runaway : there must 
be some order taken with him, for he thinks he hath wrong, 
and is not the mean hind that will sit down with it. Luckily 
he knows not of my lord, but thinks he has. only me to deal with. 
But how, in the fiend’s name, came-he hither?” 
fish“ Why, with Mike Lambourne, an you must know,” answered 
Foster. 

* And who is Mike Lambourne?” demanded Varney. “ By 
Heaven ! thou wert best set up a bush over thy door, and invite 


42 KENILWORTH. 


every stroller who passes by, to see what thou shouldst keep 
secret even from the sun and air.” 

“Ay! ay! this is a court-like requital of my service to you, 
Master Richard Varney,” replied Foster. “ Didst thou not 
charge me to seek out for thee a fellow who had a good sword, 
and an unscrupulous conscience ? and was I not busying myself 
to find a fit man—for, thank Heaven, my acquaintance lies not 
amongst such companions—when, as Heaven would have it, 
this tall fellow, who is in all his qualities the very flashing 
knave thou didst wish, came hither to fix acquaintance upon me 
in the plentitude of his impudence, and I admitted his claim, 
thinking to do you a pleasure—and now see what thanks I get 
for disgracing myself by converse with him!” 

“ And did he,” said Varney, “ being such a fellow as thyself, 
only lacking, I suppose thy present humor of hypocrisy, which 
lies as thin over thy hard ru@ianly heart as gold lacquer upon 
rusty iron—did he, I say, bring the saintly, sighing Tressilian 
in his train?” 

“They came together by Heaven!” said Foster; “and 
Tressilian—to speak Heaven’s truth—obtained a moment’s 
interview with our pretty moppet, while I was talking apart with 
Lambourne.” 

“ Improvident villain! we are both undone,” said Varney. 
.“She has of late been casting many a backward look to her 
father’s halls, whenever her lordly lover leaves her alone. 
Should this preaching fool whistle her back to her old perch, 
we were but lost men.’ 

“No fear of that, my master,” replied Anthony Foster ; 
“‘ She is in no mood to stoop to his lure, for she yelled out on 
seeing him as if an adder had stung her.” 

“That is good.—Canst thou not get from thy daughter an 
inkling of what passed between them, good Foster?” 

‘““T tell you plain, Master Varney,” said Foster, “my 
daughter shall not enter our purposes, or walk in our paths. 
They may suit me well enough, who knows how to repent of my 
misdoings ; but I will not have my child’s soul committed to 
peril either for your pleasure or my lord’s. I may walk among 
snares and pit-falls myself, because I have discretion, but I will 
not trust the poor lamb among them.” 

‘Why, thou suspicious fool, I were as averse as thou art that 
thy baby-faced girl should enter into my plans, or walk to 
hell at her father’s elbow. But indirectly thou mightst gain 
some intelligence of her.” 

“And so I did, Master Varney,” answered Foster, “and 
she said her lady called owt upon the sickness of her father,” 


? 


KENILWORTH. 43 


“Good!” replied Varney; “ that is a hint worth catching, 
and I will work upon it. But the country must be rid of this 
Tressilian—I would have cumbered no man about the matter, 
for I hate him like strong poison—his presence is hemlock to 
me—and this day I had been rid of him, but that my foot 
slipped, when, to speak truth, had not thy comrade yonder come 
to my aid, and held his hand, I should have known by this time 
whether you and I have been treading the path to heaven or 
hell.” 

“And you can speak thus of such arisk!” said Foster. 
“You keep a stout heart, Master Varney—for me, if I did not 
hope to live many years, and to have time for the great work 
of repentance, I would not go forward with you.” 

“Oh! thou shalt live as long as Methuselah,” said Varney, 
“and amass as much wealth as Solomon; and thou shalt repent 
so devoutly, that thy repentance shall be more famous than thy 
villainy,—and that is a bold word. But for all this, Tressilian 
must be looked after—Thy ruffian yonder is gone to dog him. 
It concerns our fortunes, Anthony.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Foster, sullenly, “this it is to be leagued 
with one who knows not even so much of Scripture, as that the 
laborer is worthy of his hire. I must, as usual, take all the 
trouble and risk.” 

“Risk! and what is the mighty risk, I pray you?” answered 
Varney. ‘ This fellow will come prowling again about your 
demesne or into your house, and if you take him for a house- 
breaker, or a park-breaker, is it not most natural you should 
welcome him with cold steel or hot lead? Even a mastiff will 
pull down those who come near his kennel ; and who will blame 
him? ” 

“* Ay, I have mastiff’s work and mastiff’s wage among you,” 
said Foster. “‘ Here have you, Master Varney, secured a good 
freehold estate out of this old superstitious foundation; and I 
have but a poor lease of this mansion under you, voidable at 
your honor’s pleasure.” 

“Ay, and thou wouldst fain convert thy leasehold into a 
copyhold—the thing may chance to happen, Anthony Foster, if 
thou dost good service for it. But softly, good Anthony—it 
is not the lending a room or two of this old house for keeping 
my lord’s pretty paroquet—nay, it is not the shutting thy doors 
and windows to keep her from flying off, that may deserve it. 
Remember, the manor and tithes are rated at the clear annual 
value of seventy-nine pounds five shillings and fivepence halt 
penny, besides the value of the wood. Come, come, thou must 
be conscionable ; great and secret service may deserve both 


44 KENILWORTH. 


this and a better thing—And now let thy knave come and 
pluck off my boots.—Get us some dinner and a cup of thy best 
wine.—I must visit this mavis, brave in apparel, unruffled in 
aspect, and gay in temper.” 

They parted, and at the hour of noon, which was then that 
of dinner, they again met at their meal, Varney gayly dressed 
like a courtier of the time, and even Anthony Foster improved 
in appearance as far as dress could amend an exterior so un- 
favorable. 

This alteration did not escape Varney. When the meal was 
finished, the cloth removed, and they were left to their private 
discourse—“ ‘Thou art gay as a goldfinch, Anthony,” said Var- 
ney, looking at his host; ‘methinks, thou wilt whistle a jig 
anon—but I crave your pardon, that would secure your ejection 
from the congregation of the zealous botchers, the pure-hearted 
weavers, and the sanctified bakers of Abingdon, who let their 
ovens cool while their brains get heated.” 

‘To answer you in the spirit, Master Varney,” said Foster, 
““were—excuse the parable—to fling sacred and_ precious 
things before swine. So I will speak to thee in the language 
of the world, which he, who is King of the World, hath taught 
thee to understand, and to profit by in no common measure.” 

‘Say what thou wilt, honest Tony,” replied Varney; ‘ for 
be it according to thine absurd faith, or according to thy most 
villanous practice, it cannot choose but be rare matter to qualify 
this cup of Alicant. Thy conversation is relishing and poig- 
nant, and beats caviare, dried neat’s tongue, and all other pro- 
vocatives that give savor to good liquor.” 

“Well, then, tell me,” said Anthony Foster, “is not our 
good lord ‘and master’s ; turn better served, and his antechamber 
more suitably filled with decent, God- fearing men, who will 
work his will and their own profit quietly, and without worldly 
scandal, than that he should be manned, and_ attended, and 
followed by such open debauchers and ruffianly swordsmen as 
Tidesly, Killigrew, this fellow Lambourne, whom you have put 
me to seek out for you, and other such who bear the gallows in 
their face and murder in their right hand—who are a terror to 
peaceable men, and a scandal to my lord’s service?” 

ta content you, good Master Anthony Foster,” answered 
Varney; “he that flies at all manner of game must keep all 
kinds of hawks, both short and long winged. The course,my 
lord holds is no easy one, and he ‘must stand provided at all 
points with trusty retainers to meet each sort of service. He 
must have his gay courtier, like myself, to ruffle it in the pres 


KENILWORTH. 45 


ence-chamber, and to lay hand on hilt when any speaks in dis- 
paragement of my lord’s honor” 

“Ay,” said Foster, “and to whisper a word for him into a 
fair Jady’s ear, when he may not approach her himself.” 

Bhen ;\) said Varney, going on without appearing to notice 
the interruption, “he must have his lawyers—deep subtle pio- 
neers—to draw his contracts, his pre-contracts, and his post- 
contracts, and to find the way to make the most of grants of 
church-lands and commons, and licenses for monopoly—And 
he must have physicians who can spice a cup or a caudle—And 
he must have his cabalists, like Dee and Allan, for conjuring up 
the devil—And he must have ruffling swordsmen, who would 
fight the devil when he is raised and at the wildest—And above 
all, without prejudice to others, he must have such godly, inno- 
cent, puritanic souls as thou, honest Anthony, who defy Satan, 
and do his work at the same time.” 

“You would not say, Master Varney,” said Foster, “ that 
our good lord and master whom I hold to be fulfilled in all 
nobleness, would use such base and sinful means to rise, as 
thy speech points ate” 

“Tush, man,” said Varney, “‘ never look at me with so sad 
a brow-—you trap me not—nor am | in your power, as your 
weak brain may imagine, because I name to you freely the 
engines, the springs, the screws, the tackle and braces, by which 
great men rise in stirring times—Sayest thou our good lord is 
fulfilled of all nobleness?—-Amen, and so be it—he has the 
more need to have those about him who are unscrupulous in his 
service, and who, because they know that his fall will overwhelm 
and crush them, must wager both blood and brain, soul and 
body, in order to keep him aloft; and this I tell thee, because 
I care not who knows it.” 

“You speak truth, Master Varney,” said Anthony Foster; 
“he that is head of a party, is but a boat on a wave, that 
raises not itself, but is moved upward by the billow which it 
floats upon.” 

“Thou art metaphorical, honest Anthony,” replied Varney ; 
“that velvet doublet hath made an oracle of thee—we will have 
thee to Oxford to take the degrees in the arts.—And, in the 
meantime, hast thou arranged all the matters which were sent 
from London, and put the western chambers into such fashion 
as may answer my lord’s humor ?”’ 

“They may serve a king on his bridal-day,”’ said Anthony ; 
“and. I promise you that Dame Amy sits in them yonder, as 
proud and gay as if she were the Queen of Sheba.” 


9 


46 KENILWORTH. 


“?’Tis the better, good Anthony,” answered Varney. ‘* We 
must found our future fortunes on her good liking.” 

“We build on sand then,” said Anthony Foster; “for sup 
posing that she sails away to court in all her lord’s dignity and 
authority, how is she to look back upon me, who am her jailer 
as it were, to detain her here against her will, keeping her a 
caterpillar on an old wall, when she would fain be a painted 
butterfly in a court garden?” 

“ Fear not her displeasure, man,’ said Varney. “I will 
show her that all thou hast done in this matter was good 
service, both to my lord and her; and when she chips the egg- 
shell and walks alone, she shall own we have hatched her’ 
greatness.” 

“Look to yourself, Master Varney,” said Foster, ‘you may 
misreckon foully in this matter—She gave you but a frosty 
reception this morning, and, I think, looks on you, as well as 
me, with an evil eye.” 

‘You mistake her, Foster—you mistake her utterly—To me 
she is bound by all the ties which can secure her to one who 
has been the means of gratifying both her love and ambi- 
tion. Who was it that took the obscure Amy Robsart, the 
daughter of an impoverished and dotard knight—the destined 
bride of a moon-struck, moping enthusiast like Edmund Tressil- 
ian, from her lowly fates, and held out to her in prospect the 
brightest fortune in England, or perchance in Europe? Why, 
man, it was I,as I have often told thee, that found opportunity 
for their secret meeting—It was I who watched the wood while 
he beat for the deer——-It was I who, to this day, am blamed by 
her family as the companion of her flight, and were I in their 
neighborhood, would be fain to wear a shirt of better stuff than 
Holland linen, lest my ribs should be acquainted with Spanish 
steel. Who carried their letters?—I. Who amused the old 
knight and ‘Tressilian >—I. Who planned her escape ?—it was 
I. It was I, in short, Dick Varney, who pulled this pretty little 
daisy from its lowly nook, and placed it in the proudest bonnet 
in Britain.” 

‘‘ Ay, Master Varney,” said Foster, “but it may be she 
thinks, that had the matter remained with you, the flower had 
been stuck so slightly into the cap, that the first breath of a 
changeable breeze of passion had blown the poor daisy to the 
common.” ) 

“‘ She should consider,” said Varney, smiling, “ the true faith 
I owed my lord and master prevented me at first from counseFk 
ing marriage—and yet I did counsel marriage when J saw she 


KENILWORTH. 47 


would not be satisfied without the—the sacrament, or the cere. 
mony—which callest thou it, Anthony?” 

“Still she has you at feud on another score,” said Foster ; 
“and I tell it you that you may look to yourself in time—She 
would not hide her splendor in this dark lantern of an old 
monastic house, but would fain shine a countess amongst 
countesses.” 

“‘ Very natural, very right,” answered Varney; “ but what 
have I to do with that ?—she may shine through horn or through 
crystal at my lord’s pleasure, I have nought to say against it.” 

“* She deems that you have an oar upon that side of the boat, 
Master Varney,” replied Foster, “and that you can pull it or 
no, at your good pleasure. In a word, she ascribes the secrecy 
and obscurity in which she is kept, to your secret counsel to my 
lord, and to my secret agency; and so she loves us both as a 
sentenced man loves his judge and his jailer.” 

_ “She must love us better ere she leaves this place, Anthony,” 
answered Varney. ‘If I have counseled for weighty reasons 
that she remain here for a season, I can also advise her being 
brought forth in the full blow of her dignity. But I were mad 
to do so, holding so near a place to my lord’s person, were she 
mine enemy. lEear this truth in upon her as occasion offers, 
Anthony, and let me alone for extoling you in her ear, and ex- 
alting you in her opinion—Ka me, ka thee—it is a proverb all 
over the world—The lady must know her friends, and be made 
to judge of the power they have of being her enemies—mean- 
while, watch her strictly, but with all the outward observance 
that thy rough nature will permit. ’Tis an excellent thing that 
sullen look and bull-dog humor of thine; thou shouldst thank 
God for it, and so should my lord; for when there is aught 
harsh or hard-natured to be done, thou dost it as if it flowed 
from thine own natural doggedness, and not from orders, and 
so my lord escapes the scandal.—But, hark—some one knocks 
at the gate.—Look out of the window—let no one enter—this 
were an ill night to be interrupted.” 

“Tt is he whom we spoke of before dinner,” said Foster, as 
he looked through the casement; “it is Michael Lambourne.” 

“Oh, admit him, by all means,” said the courtier, “‘ he comes 
to give some account of his guest—it imports us much to know 
the movements of Edmund Tressilian—Admit him, I say, but 
bring him not hither—I will come to you presently in the 
Abbot’s library.” 

Foster left the room, and the courtier, who remained behind, 
paced the parlor more than once in deep thought, his arms 
folded on his bosom, until at length he gave went to his med 


48 KENILWORTH. 


tations in broken words, which we have somewhat enlarged 
and connected, that the soliloquy may be intelligible to the 
reader. 

“Tis true,” he said, suddenly stopping, and resting his right 
hand on the table at which they had been sitting, “this base 
churl hath fathomed the very depth of my fear, and I have been 
unable to disguise it from him.—She loves me not—I would it 
were as true that I loved not her !—Idiot that I was, to move 
her in my own behalf, when wisdom bade me be a true broker 
to my lord !—And this fatal error has placecl me more at her 
discretion than a wise man would willingly be at that of the 
best piece of painted Eve’s flesh of them all. Since the hour 
that my policy made so perilous a slip, I cannot look at her 
without fear, and hate, and fondness, so strangely mingled, 
that I know not whether, were it at my choice, I would rather 
possess or ruin her. But she must not leave this retreat until 
I am assured.on what terms we are to stand. My lord’s inter- 
est—and so far it is mine own—for if he sinks, I fall in his 
train—demands concealment of this obscure marriage—and 
besides I will not lend her my arm to climb. to her chair of 
state, that she may set her foot on my neck when she is fairly 
seated. I must work an interest in her, either through love or 
through fear—and who knows but I may yet reap the sweetest 
and best revenge for her former scorn ?—that were indeed a 
‘ masterpiece of court-like art !—Let me but once be her counsel- 
keeper—let her confide to me a secret, did it but concern the 
robbery of a linnet’s nest, and, fair Countess, thou art mine 
own!” He again paced the room in silence, stopped, filled and 
drank a cup of wine, as if to compose the agitation of his mind; 
and muttering, ‘ Now for a close heart, and an open and un- 
ruffled brow,” he left the apartment. 


CHAPTER SIXTH. 


The dews of summer night did fall, 
The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 
Silver’d the walls of Cumnor Hall, 
And many an oak that grew thereby. * 
MICKLE, 


Four apartments, which occupied the western side of the old 
quadrangle at Cumnor Place, had been fitted up with extra- 


* This verse is the commencement of the ballad Se quoted, as what 
suggested the novel, 


KENILWORTH. 49 


ordinary splendor. This had been the work of several days 
prior to that on which our story opened. Workmen sent from 
London, and not permitted to leave the premises until the work 
was finished, had converted the apartments in that side of the 
building, frem the dilapidated appearance of a dissolved mo- 
nastic house, into the semblance of a royal palace. A mystery 
was observed in all these arrangements ; the workmen came 
thither and returned by night, and all measures were taken to 
prevent the prying curiosity of the villagers from observing or 
speculating upon the changes which were taking place on the 
mansion of their once indigent, but now wealthy neighbor, 
Anthony Foster. Accordingly, the secrecy desired was so far 
preserved, that nothing got abroad but vague and uncertain 
reports, which were received and repeated, but without much 
credit being attached to them. 

On the evening of which we treat, the new and highly deco- 
rated suite of rooms were, for the first time, illuminated, and 
that with a brilliancy which might have been visible half-a- 
dozen miles off, had not oaken shutters, carefully secured with 
bolt and padlock, and mantled with long curtains of silk and of 
velvet, deeply fringed with gold, prevented the slightest gleam 
of radiance from being seen without. 

The principal apartments, as we have seen, were four in 
number, each opening into the other. Access was given to 
them by a large scale staircase as they were then called, of 
unusual length. and height, which had its landing-place at the 
door of an antechamber, shaped somewhat like a gallery.. This 
apartment the Abbot had used as an occasional council room, 
but it was now beautifully wainscoted with dark foreign wood 
of a brown color, and bearing a high polish, said to have been 
brought from the Western Indies, and to ‘have been wrought in 
London with infinite difficulty, and much damage to the tools 
of the workmen. The dark color of this finishing was relieved 
by the number of lights in silver sconces, which hung against 
the walls, and by six large and richly-framed pictures, by the 
first masters of the age. A massy oaken table, placed at’ the 
lower end of the apartment, served to accommodate such as 
chose to play at the then fashionable game of shovel-board ; 
and there was at the other end an elevated gallery for the 
musicians or minstrels, who might be summoned to increase the 
festivity of the evening. 

From this antechamber opened a banqueting-room of mod- 
erate size, but brilliant enough to dazzle the eyes of the 
spectator with the richness of its furniture. The wells, lately 
so bare and ghastly, were now clothed with hangings of sky. 


50 KENILWORTH. 


blue velvet and silver ; the chairs were of ebony, richly carved, 
with cushions corresponding to the hangings ; and the place of 
the silver sconces which enlightened the antechamber was 
supplied by a huge chandelier of the same precious metal. The 
floor was covered with a Spanish foot-cloth, or carpet, on which 
flowers and fruits were represented in such glowing and natural 
colors, that you hesitated to place the foot on such exquisite 
workmanship. The table, of old English oak, stood ready 
covered with the finest linen, and a large portable court 
cupboard was placed with the leaves of its embossed folding- 
doors displayed, showing the shelves within, decorated with a 
full display of plate and porcelain. In the midst of the table 
stood a salt-cellar of Italian workmanship—a beautiful and 
splendid piece of plate about two feet high, moulded into a 
representation of the giant Briareus, whose hundred hands of 
silver presented to the guest various sorts of spices, or condi- 
ments, to season their food withal. 

The third apartment was called the withdrawing-room. It 
was hung with the finest tapestry, representing the fall of 
Phaeton; for the looms of Flanders were now much occupied 
on classical subjects. The principal seat of this apartment was 
a chair of state, raised a step or two from the floor, and large 
enough to contain two persons. [t was surmounted by a canopy, 
which, as well as the cushions, side-curtains and the very foot- 
cloth, was composed of crimson velvet, embroidered with seed- 
pearl. On the top of the canopy were two coronets, resembling 
those of an earl and countess. Stools covered with velvet, and 
some cushions disposed in the Moorish fashion, and ornamented 
with Arabesque needlework, supplied the place of chairs in this 
apartment, which contained musical instruments, embroidery 
frames, and other articles for ladies’ pastime. Besides lesser 
lights, the withdrawing-room was illuminated by four tall 
torches of virgin wax, each of which was placed in the grasp of 
a statue, representing an armed Moor, who held in his left arm 
a round buckler of silver, highly polished, interposed betwixt 
his breast and the light, which was thus brilliantly reflected as 
from a crystal mirror. 

The sleeping chamber belonging to this splendid suite of 
apartments, was decorated in a taste less showy, but not less 
rich, than had been displayed in the others. ‘Two silver lamps 
fed with perfumed oil, diffused at once a delicious odor anda 
trembling twilight-seeming shimmer through the quiet apart- 
ment. It was carpeted so thick, that the heaviest step could 
not have been heard: and the bed, richly heaped with down, 
was spread with an ample coverlet of silk and gold ; from 


KENILWORTH. 5r 


under which peeped forth cambric sheets, and blankets as white 
as the lambs which yielded the fleece that made them. The 
curtains were of blue velvet, lined with crimson silk, deeply 
festooned with gold and embroidered with the loves of Cupid 
and Psyche. On the toilet was a beautiful Venetian mirror, in 
a frame of silver filigree, and besides it stood a gold posset-dish 
to contain the night-draught. A pair of pistols and a dagger, 
mounted with gold, were displayed near the head of the bed, 
being the arms for the night, which were presented to honored 
guests, rather, it may be supposed, in the way of ceremony, 
than from any apprehension of danger. We must not omit to 
mention, what was more to the credit of the manners of the 
time, that, in a small recess, illuminated by a taper, were dis- 
posed two cassocks of velvet and gold, corresponding with the 
bed furniture, before a desk of carved ebony. This recess had 
formerly been the private oratory of the Abbot, but the crucifix 
was removed, and instead, there were placed on the desk two 
Books of Common Prayer, richly bound and embossed with silver. 
With this enviable sleeping apartment, which was so far removed 
from every sound, save that of the wind sighing among the oaks 
of the park, that Morpheus might have coveted it for his own 
proper repose, corresponded two wardrobes, or dressing-rooms 
as they are now termed, suitably furnished, and ina style of the 
same magnificence which we have already described. It ought 
to be added, that a part of the building ‘in the adjoining wing 
was occupied by the kitchen and its offices, and served to ac- 
commodate the personal attendants of the great and wealthy 
nobleman, for whose use these magnificent preparations had 
been made. 

The divinity for whose sake this temple had been decorated, 
was well worthy the cost and pains which had been bestowed. 
She was seated in the withdrawing-room which we have de- 
scribed, surveying with the pleased eye of natural and innocent 
vanity, the splendor which had been so suddenly created, as 
it were, in her honor. For, as her own residence at Cumnor 
Place formed the cause of the mystery observed in all the 
preparations for opening these apartments, it was sedulously 
arranged, that, until she took possession of them, she should 
have no means of knowing what was going forward in that 
part of the ancient building, or of exposing herself to be seen 
by the workmen’ engaged in the decorations. She had been, 
therefore introduced on that evening to a part of the mansion 
which she had never yet seen, so different from all the rest, that 
it appeared, in comparison, like an enchanted palace. And 
when she first examined and occupied these splendid rooms, it 


52 KENILWORTH. 


was with the wild and unrestrained joy of a rustic beauty, wha 
finds herself suddenly invested with a splendor which her 
most extravagant wishes had never imagined, and at the same 
time with the keen feeling of an affectionate heart, which knows 
that all the enchantment that surrounds her is the work of the 
great magician Love. 

The Countess Amy, therefore,—for to that rank she was 
exalted by her private but solemn union with England’s proud- 
est Earl,—had for a time flitted hastily from room to room, 
admiring each new proof of her lover and her bridegroom’s 
taste, and feeling that admiration enhanced as she recollected 
that all she gazed upon was one continued proof of his ardent 
and devoted affection.—‘‘ How beautiful are these hangings !— 
How natural these paintings, which seemed to contend with 
life !—How richly wrought is that plate, which looks as if all 
the galleons of Spain had been intercepted on the broad seas to 
furnish it forth !—And oh, Janet!” she exclaimed repeatedly 
to the daughter of Anthony Foster, the close attendant, who, 
with equal curiosity, but somewhat less ecstatic joy, followed on 
her mistress’s footsteps—‘‘ Oh, Janet ! how much more delight- 
ful to think, that all these fair things have been assembled by 
his love, for the love of me! and that this evening—this very 
evening, which grows darker every instant, I shall thank him 
more for the love that has created such an unimaginable 
paradise, than for all the wonders it contains !” 

‘The Lord is to be thanked first,” said the pretty Puritan, 
‘“‘who gave thee, lady, the kind and courteous husband, whose 
love has done so much for thee. I, too, have done my poor 
share. But if you thus run wildly from room to room, the toil 
of my crisping and my curling pins will vanish like the frost- 
work on the window when the sun is high.” 

“Thou sayest true, Janet,” said the young and beautiful 
Countess, stopping suddenly from her tripping race of enrap- 
tured delight, and looking at herself from head to foot ina 
large mirror, such as she had never before seen, and which, 
indeed, had few to match it even in the Queen’s palace.—“ Thou 
sayest true, Janet!’ she answered, as she saw, with pardonable 
self-applause, the noble mirror reflect such charms as were 
seldom presented to its fair and polished surface; “I have 
more of the milkmaid than the countess, with these cheeks 
flushed with haste, and all these brown curls, which you 
labored to bring to order, straying as wild as the tendrils of 
an unpruned vine——My falling ruffis chafed too, and shows the 
neck and bosom more than is modest and seemly—Come, Janet 
—we will practice state—we will go to the withdrawing-room, my 


KENILWORTH. 53 


good girl, and thou shalt put these rebel locks in order, and 
imprison within lace and cambric the bosom that beats too 
high.” 

They went to the withdrawing apartment accordingly, where 
the Countess playfully stretched herself upon the pile of Moorish 
cushions, half sitting, half reclining, half. rapt in her own 
thoughts, half listening to the prattle of her attendant. 

While she was in this attitude, and with a corresponding 
expression betwixt listlessness and expectation on her fine and 
expressive features, you might have searched sea and land 
without finding anything half so expressive, or half so lovely. 
The wreath of brilliants which mixed with her dark brown 
hair, did not match in lustre the hazel eye which a light brown 
eyebrow, penciled with exquisite delicacy, and long eyelashes 
of the same color, relieved and shaded. ‘The exercise she had 
just taken, her excited expectation and gratified vanity, spread 
a glow over her fine features, which had been sometimes cen- 
sured (as beauty as well as art has her minute critics) for being 
rather too pale. ‘The milk-white pearls of the necklace which 
she wore, the same which she had just received as a true-love 
token from her husband, were excelled in purity by her teeth, 
and by the color of her skin, saving where the blush of pleas- 
ure and self-satisfaction had somewhat stained the neck with 
a shade of light crimson.——‘‘ Now, have done with these busy 
fingers, Janet,” she said to her handmaiden, who was. still 
officiously employed in bringing her hair and her dress into 
order—* Have done, I say—I must see your father ere my lord 
arrives, and also Master Richard Varney, whom my lord has 
highly in his esteem—but I could tell that of him would lose 
him favor.” 

“Oh do not do so, good my lady!” repiied Janet; “leave 
him to God, who punishes the wicked in his own time; but do 
not you cross Varney’s path, for so thoroughly hath he my lord’s 
ear, that few have thriven who have thwarted his courses.” 

“And from whom had you this, my most righteous Janet ?” 
said the Countess; ‘‘ or why should I keep terms with so mean 
a gentleman as Varney, being, as I am, wife to his master and 
patron ?” 

“Nay, madam,” replied Janet Foster, “ your ladyship knows 
better than I—But I have heard my father say, he would 
rather cross a hungry wolf, than thwart Richard Varney in his 
projects—And he has often charged me to have a care of hold- 
ing commerce with him.” 

“ Thy father said well, girl, for thee,’ replied the lady, 
“and I dare swear meant well. It is a pity, though, his face 


4 KENILWORTH. 


and manner do little match his true purpose—for I think his 
purpose may be true.” . 

“Doubt it not, my lady,” answered Janet—‘ Doubt not 
that my father purposes well, though he is a plain man, and his 
blunt looks may belie his heart.” 

“T will not doubt it, girl, were it only for thy sake; and yet 
he has one of those faces which men tremble when they look 
on—I think even thy mother, Janet—nay, have done with that 
poking-iron—could hardly look upon him without quaking.” 

“If it were so, madam,” answered Janet Foster, “my mother 
had those who could keep her in honorable countenance. Why, 
even you, my lady, both trembled and blushed when Varney 
brought the letter from my lord.” 

‘You are bold, damsel,” said the Countess, rising from the 
cushions on which she sate half-reclined in the arms of her 
attendant—“ Know, that there are causes of trembling which 
have nothing to do with fear.—But, Janet,” she added, imme- 
diately relapsing into the good-natured and familiar tone which 
was natural to her, “‘ believe me, I will do what credit I can to 
your father, and the rather that you, sweetheart, are his child. 
—Alas! alas!” she added, a sudden sadness passing over her 
fine features, and her eyes filling with tears, “I ought the 
rather to hold sympathy with thy kind heart, that my own poor 
father is uncertain of my fate, and they say lies sick and sorrow- 
ful for my worthless sake !—But I will soon cheer him—the 
news of my happiness and advancement will make him young 
again.—And that I may cheer him the sooner ’”—she wiped her 
eyes as she spoke—‘ I must be cheerful myself—My lord 
must not find me insensible to his kindness, or sorrowful when 
he snatches a visit to his recluse, after so long an absence. 
Be merry, Janet—the night wears on, and my lord must soon 
arrive.—Call thy father hither, and call Varney also—lI cherish 
resentment against neither ; and though I may have some room 
to be displeased with both, it shall be their own fault if ever a 
complaint against them reaches the Earl through my means.— 
Call them hither, Janet.” 

Janet Foster obeyed her mistress; and in a few minutes 
after, Varney entered that withdrawing-room with the graceful 
ease and unclouded front of an accomplished courtier, skilled, 
under the veil of external politeness, to disguise his own feel- 
ings, and to penetrate those of others. Anthony Foster plodded 
into the apartment after him, his natural gloomy vulgarity of 
aspect seeming to become yet more remarkable, from his clumsy 
attempt to conceal the mixture of anxiety and dislike with 
which he looked on her, over whom he had hitherto exercised 


KENILWORTH. te 


so severe acontrol, now so splendidly attired, and decked with 
so many pledges of the interest which she possessed in her 
husband’s affections. The blundering reverence which he 
made, rather af than #o the Countess, had confession in it—It 
was like the reverence which the criminal makes to the judge, 
when he at once owns his guilt and implores mercy,—which is 
at the same time an impudent and embarrassed attempt at de- 
fence or extenuation, a confession of a fault, and an entreaty 
for lenity. 

Varney, who, in right of his gentle blood, had pressed into 
the room before Anthony Foster, knew better what to say than 
he, and said it with more assurance and a better grace. 

The Countess greeted him indeed with an appearance of 
cordiality, which seemed a complete amnesty for whatever she 
might have to complain of. She rose from her seat, and ad- 
vanced two steps toward him, holding forth her hand as she 
said, *‘ Master Richard Varney, you. brought me this morning 
such welcome tidings, that I fear surprise and joy made me 
neglect my lord and husband’s charge to receive you with dis- 
tinction. We offer you our hand, sir, in reconciliation.” 

“T am unworthy to touch it,’”’ said Varney, dropping on one 
knee, save as a subject honors that of a prince.” 

He touched with his lips those fair and slender fingers, so 
richly loaded with rings and jewels ; then rising with graceful 
gallantry, was about to hand her to the chair of state, when 
she said, “‘ No, good Master Richard Varney, I take not my 
place there until my lord himself conducts me. I am for the 
present but a disguised Countess, and will not take dignity on 
me until authorized by him whom I derive it from.” 

‘J trust, my lady,” said Foster, “that in doing the com: 
mands of my lord your husband, in your restraint and so forth, 
I have not incurred your displeasure, seeing that I did not my 
duty toward your lord and mine ; for Heaven, as Holy Writ 
saith, hath given the husband supremacy and dominion over 
the wife—I think it runs so, or something lke it.” 

““T receive at this moment so pleasant a surprise, Master 
Foster,” answered the Countess, ‘‘ that I cannot but excuse the 
rigid fidelity which secluded me from these apartments, until 
they had assumed an appearance so new and so splendid.” 

*“ Ay, lady,” said Foster, “‘it hath cost many a fair crown ; 
and that more need not be wasted than is absolutely necessary, 
I leave you till my lord’s arrival with good Master Richard 
Varney, who, as I think, hath somewhat to say to you, from 
your most noble lord and husband.—Janet, follow me, to see 
that all be in order.” 


56 KENILWORTH, 


‘“No, Master Foster,” said the Countess, “we will your 
daughter remains here in our apartment: out of ear-shot, 
however, in case Varney hath aught to say to me from my 
lord.” 

Foster made his clumsy reverence, and departed, with an 
aspect which seemed to grudge the profuse expense, which had 
been wasted upon changing his house from a bare and ruinous 
grange to an Asiatic palace. When he was gone, his daughter 
took her embroidery frame, and went to establish herself at the 
bottom of the apartment, while Richard Varney, with a pro- 
foundly humble courtesy, took the lowest stool he could find, 
and placing it by the side of the pile of cushions on which the 
Countess had now again seated herself, sat with his eyes for a 
time fixed on the ground, and in profound silence. 

““T thought, Master Varney,” said the Countess, when she 
saw he was not likely to open the conversation, “that you had 
something to communicate from my lord and husband; so at 
least I understood Master Foster, and therefore I removed my 
waiting-maid. If I am mistaken I will recall her to my side ; 
for her needle is not so absolutely perfect in tent and cross- 
stitch, but that my superintendence is advisable.” 

“ Lady,” said Varney, “ Foster was partly mistaken in my 
purpose. It was not from, but of your noble husband, and my 
approved and most noble patron, that I am led, and indeed 
bound, to speak.” 

“The theme is most welcome, sir,” said the Countess, 
“whether it be of or from my noble husband. But be brief, 
for I expect his hasty approach.” 

“ Briefly, then, madam,” replied Varney, “and boldly, for 
my argument requires both haste and courage—You have this 
day seen Tressilian ?” 

‘““T have, sir, and what of that?” answered the lady some- 
what sharply. 

‘““Nothing that concerns me, lady,” Varney replied, with 
humility. ‘ But think you, honored madam, that your lord will 
hear it with equal equanimity ?” 

“‘And wherefore should he not ?—to me alone was Tres- 
silian’s visit embarrassing and painful, for he brought news of 
my good father’s illness.” 

‘“‘ Of your father’s illness, madam!” answered Varney. “ It 
must have been sudden then—very sudden ; for the messenger 
whom I despatched, at my lord’s instance, found the good 
knight. on the hunting field, cheering his beagles with his 
wonted jovial field-cry. I trust Tressilian has but forged thig 


KENILWORTH, 57 


news—He hath his reasons, madam, as you well know, for 
disquieting your present happiness.” 

“You do him injustice, Master Varney,” replied the Count- 
ess, with animation,—‘‘ You do him much injustice. He is the 
freest, the most open, the most gentle heart that breathes—My 
honorable lord ever excepted, I know not one to whom false- 
hood is more odious than to Tressilian.” 

“I crave pardon, madam,” said Varney, ‘I meant the 
gentleman no injustice—I knew not how nearly his cause 
affected you.. A man may, in some circumstances, disguise the 
truth for fair and honest purpose; for were it to be always 
spoken, and upon all occasions, this were no world to live in.” 

* You have a courtly conscience, Master Varney,” said the 
Countess, “and your veracity will not, I think, interrupt your 
preferment in the world, such as it is—But touching Tressilian 
—I must do him justice, for I have done him wrong, as none 
knows better than thou.—Tressilian’s conscience is of other 
mould—the world thou speakest of has not that which could 
bribe him from the way of truth and honor; and for living in 
it with a soiled fame, the ermine would as soon seek to lodge 
in the den of the foul polecat. For this my father loved him— 
For this I would have loved him—if I could—And yet in this 
case he had what seemed to him, unknowing alike of my mar- 
riage, and to whom I was united, such powerful reasons. to 
withdraw me from this place, that I well trust he exaggerated 
much of my father’s indisposition, and that thy better news 
may be the truer.” 

“‘ Believe me they are, madam,” answered Varney ; “I pre- 
tend not to be achampion of that same naked virtue called 
truth, to the very outrance. I can consent that her charms be 
hidden with a veil, were it but for decency’s sake. But you 
must think lower of my head and heart, than is due to one 
whom my noble lord deigns to call his friend, if you suppose I 
could wilfully and unnecessarily palm upon your ladyship a 
falsehood, so soon to be detected, in a manner which concerns 
your happiness.” 

“Master Varney,” said the Countess, ‘I know that my lord 
esteems you, and holds you a faithful and a good pilot in those 
seas in which he has spread so high and so venturous a sail, 
Do not suppose, therefore, I meant hardly by you, when I spoke 
the truth in Tressilian’s vindication—I am, as you well know, 
country-bred, and like plain rustic truth better than courtly 
compliment ; but I must change my fashions with my sphere, 
I presume.” 

* True, madam,” said Varney smiling, “and though you 


58 KENILWORTH. 


speak now in jest, it will not be amiss that in earnest yout 
present speech had some connection with your real purpose.— 
A court-dame—take the most noble—the most virtuous—the 
most unimpeachable, that stands around our Queen’s throne— 
would, for example, have shunned to speak the truth, or what 
she thought such, in praise of a discarded suitor, before the 
dependant and confidant of her noble husband.” | 

‘‘And'wherefore, said the Countess, coloring impatiently, 
“should I not do justice to Tressilian’s worth, before my hus- 
band’s friend—before my husband himself—before the whole 
world ?” | 

“‘ And with the same openness,” said Varney, “ your ladyship 
will this night teil my noble lord your husband, that Tressilian 
has discovered your place of residence, se anxiously concealed 
fron the world, and that he has had an interview with you.” 

* Unquestionably,” said the Countess. ‘ It will be the first 
thing I tell him, together with every word that Tressilian said, 
and that I answered. I shall speak my own shame in this; for 
Tressilian’s reproaches, less just'than» he esteemed them, ‘were 
not altogether unmerited—I will speak, therefore, with pain, 
but I will speak, and speak all.” 

“Your iadyship will do your pleasure,” answered Varney ; 
“but methinks it were as well, since nothing calls for so frank 
a disclosure, to spare yourself this pain, and my noble lord the 
disquiet, and Master Tressilian, since belike he must be thought 
of in the matter, the danger which is like to ensue.” 

““T can see nought of all these terrible consequences,” said 
the lady composedly, “unless by imputing to my noble lord 
unworthy thoughts which I am sure never harbored ‘in his 
generous heart.” Lava PUD 

‘Far be it from me to do so,” said Varney.—And then after 
a moment’s silence, he added, with a real or affected plainness 
of manner, very different from his usual smooth. courtesy— 
“Come, madam, I will show youthat a courtier dare speak 
truth as well as another, when it concerns the weal of those 
whom he honors and regards, ay, and although it may infer 
his own danger.”—He waited as if to receive'commands, or at 
Jeast permission, to go on, but as’ the lady remained silent, he 
proceeded, but obviously with caution.—* Look around you,” 
he said, “noble lady, and observe the barriers. with which this 
place is surrounded, the studious mystery with which the 
brightest jewel that England possesses is secluded from the 
admiring gaze—See with what rigor your walks’ are circum- 
scribed, and your movements restrained, at the beck of yondet 


ee 


KENILWORTH. 59 


churlish Foster. Consider all this, and judge for yourself what 
can be the cause.” 

“ My lord’s pleasure,” answered the Countess ; “and I am 
bound to seek no other motive.” 

“‘ His pleasure it is indeed,” said Varney, ‘and his pleasure 
arises out of a love worthy of the object which inspires it. But 
he who possesses a treasure, and who values it, is oft anxious, 
in proportion to the value he puts upon it, to secure it from 
the depredations of others.” 

“What needs all this talk, Master Varney ?” said the lady, 
in reply ; “you would have me believe that my noble lord is 
jealous—Suppose it true, I know a cure for jealousy.” 

“Indeed, madam !” said Varney. 

‘Tt is,” replied the lady, “to speak the truth to my lord at 
all times ; to hold up my mind and my thoughts before him as 
pure as that polished mirror; so that when he looks into my 
heart, he shall only see his own features reflected there.” 

“Tam mute, madam,” answered Varney; “ and as I have 
no reason to grieve for Tressilian, who would have my heart’s 
blood were he able, I shall reconcile myself easily to what may 
befall the gentleman, in consequence of your frank disclosure of 
his having presumed to intrude upon your solitude.—You, who 
know my lord so much better than I, will judge if he be likely 
to bear the insult unavenged.” 

“Nay, if I could think myself the cause of Tressilian’s 
ruin,” said the Countess,—‘‘I who have already occasioned 
him so much distress, I might be brought to be silent—And 
yet what will it avail, since he was seen by Foster, and | think 
by some one else ?—No, no, Varney, urge it no more. I will 
tell the whole matter to my lord; and with much pleading for 
Tressilian’s folly, as: shall. dispose my lord’s generous heart 
tather to serve than to punish him.” 

“ Your judgment, madam,” said Varney, “‘is far superior to 
mine, especially as you may, if you will, prove the ice before 
you step on it, by mentioning Tressilian’s name to my lord, and 
observing how he endures it. For Foster and his, attendant, 
they know not Tressilian by sight, and I can easily give them 
some reasonable excuse for the appearance of an unknown 
stranger.” 

The lady paused for an instant, and then replied, “ If, Var- 
ney, it be indeed true that Foster knows not as yet that the 


b 


- man he saw was Tressilian, I own I were unwilling he should 


learn what nowise concerns him. He bears himself already 
with austerity enough, and I wish him not to be judge or 
privy:councilor in my affairs.” 


65 KENILWORTH. 


“Tush,”? said Varney; “what has the surly groom to da 
with your ladyship’s concerns?—No more, surely, than the 
ban-dog which watches his court-yard. If he is in aught dis- 
tasteful to your ladyship, I have interest enough’to have him 
exchanged fora seneschal that shall be more agreeable to you.” 

‘‘ Master Varney,’ said, the Countess, “let us drop this 
theme—when_ I complain of the attendants whom my lord has 
placed ‘around me, it must be to my lord himself.—Hark! | 
hear the trampling ‘of horse—He comes! he comes!” she ex- 
claimed, jumping up in ecstasy. 

““-icannot think it is he,” said Varney; “or that you can 
hear the tread of his horse through the closely-mantled case- 
ments.’ 

* Stop me not, Varney—my ears are keener than thine—it 
is he!” 

“ But, madam !—but, madam!” exclaimed Varney, anxious- 
ly, and still placing himself in her. way—‘‘ I trust that what. [ 
have spoken in humble duty and service, will not be turned to 
my ruin ?—I hope: that my faithful advice will not be bewrayed 
to my prejudice ?—I implore that” | 

“Content thee, man—content thee!’ said the Countess, 
“and quit my skirt—you are too bold to. detain me—Content 
thyself, I think not of thee.” 

At this moment the folding doors. flew wide open, and a 
man. of,majestic mien, muffled in the folds of a long. dark 
riding-cloak, entered the apartment. | 


CHAPTER’ SEVENTH. 


This is he 
Who rides on the court-gale; controls its tides; 
Knows all their secret shoals and fatal eddies; 
Whose frown abases, and whose smile exalts: 
He Shines like any rainbow—and, perchance, - 
His-colors are as transient. 


OLD. PLAY. 


‘TERE was some little displeasure and confusion on the 
Gina »ss’s. brow, owing to her struggie with Varney’s pertinac- 
ity ; but it} was ;exchanged for an expression of the purest joy 
and,affection, as she threw herself into. the arms of the noble. 
stranger,who enteced,. and. clas sping, him »to «her bosom, ex 
claimed, eae length—at length thou art come 1”. 


KENILWORTH, 6y 


Varney discreetly withdrew as his lord entered, and Janet 
was about to do the same, when her mistress signed to her te 
semain. She took her place at the further end of the apart: 
ment, and continued standing, as if ready for attendance. 

Meanwhile the Earl, for he was of no inferior rank, returned 
nis lady’s caress with the most affectionate ardor, but affected 
to resist when she strove to take his cloak from him. 

“Nay,” she said, “but I will unmantle you—I must see if 
you have kept your word to me, and come as the great Earl 
men call thee, and not as heretofore like a private cavalier.” 

“Thou art like the rest of the world, Amy,” said the Earl, 
suffering her to prevail in the playful contest; “ the jewels, and 
feathers, and silk, are more to them than the man whom they 
adorn—many a poor blade looks gay in a velvet scabbard.” ' 

“But so cannot men say of thee, thou noble Earl,” said his 
lady, as the cloak dropped on the floor, and showed him dressed 
as princes when they ride abroad; ‘‘ thou art’ the good and 
well-tried steel, whose inly worth deserves, yet disdains, its 
outward ornaments, Do not think Amy can love thee better 
in this glorious garb than she did when she gave her heart 
to him who wore the russet-brown cloak in the wooas of 
Devon.” 

“ And thou too,” said the Earl, as gracefully and majestically 
he led his beautiful Countess toward the chair of state which 
was prepared for them both,—* thou too, my love, hast donned 
a dress which becomes thy rank, though it cannot improve thy 
beauty. What think’st thou of our court taste?” 

The lady cast a sidelong glance upon the great mirror as they 
passed it by, and then said, “ I know not how it is, but I think 
not of my own person, while I look at the reflection of thine. 
Sit thou there,” she said, as they approached the chair of state, 
“like a thing for men to worship and to wonder at.’ 

Hf Ay, love, ” said the Earl, “if thou wilt share my state 
with me 

“Not so,”’ said the Countess; “I will sit on this footstool at 
thy feet, that I may spell over thy splendor, and learn, for the 
first time, how princes are attired.” 

And with a childish wonder, which her youth and rustic 
education rendered not only excusable but becoming, mixed as 
it was with a delicate show of the most tender conjugal affection, 
she examined and admired from head to foot the noble form and 
princely attire of him who formed the proudest ornament of the 
court of England’s Maiden Queen, renowned as it was for splendid 
courtiers, as. well as for wise counselors. Regarding affection: 
ately his lovely bride, and gratified by her unrepressed admira- 


62 KENILWORTH. 


tion, the dark eye and noble features of the Earl expressed 
passions more gentle than the commanding and aspiring look 
which usually sate upon his broad forehead, and in the piercing 
brilliancy of his dark eye; and he smiled at the simplicity which 
dictated the question she put to him concerning the various 
ornaments with which he was decorated. 

“The embroidered strap, as thou callest it, around my 
knee,” he said, “is the English Garter, an ornament which 
kings are proud to wear. See, here is the star which belongs 
to it, and here the Diamond George, the jewel of the Order. 
You have heard how King Edward and the Countess -of 
Salisbury ” 

“Oh, I know all that tale,” said the Countess, slightly 
Meonaen ‘‘ and how a lady’s garter became the proudest badge 
of English chivalry.” 

“Even so,” said the Earl, ‘‘and this most honorable Order 
I had the good hap to receive at the same time with three 
most noble associates, the Duke of Norfolk, the Marquis of 
Northampton, and the Earl of Rutland. I was the lowest of 
the four in rank—but what then?—he that climbs a ladder 
must begin at the first round.” 

“But this other fair collar, so richly wrought, with some jewel 
like a sheep hung by the middle attached to it, what,” said the 
young Countess, “does that emblem signify ?” 

“This collar,” said the Earl, “with its double fusilles 
interchanged with these knobs, which are supposed to present 
flint-stones sparkling with fire, and sustaining the jewel you 
inquire about, is the badge of the noble Order of the Golden 
Fleece, once appertaining to the House of Burgundy. It hath 
high privileges, my Amy, belonging to it, this most noble 
Order; for even the King of Spain himself, who hath now 
succeeded to the honors and demesnes of Burgundy, may not 
sit in judgment upon a knight of the Golden Fleece, unless by 
assistance and consent of the Great Chapter of the Order.” 

“ Andis this an Order belonging to the cruel King of Spain?” 
said the Countess. ‘ Alas! my noble lord, that you will defile 
your noble English breast by bearing such an emblem! Be- 
think you of the most unhappy Queen Mary’s days, when this 
same Philip held sway with her in England, and of the piles 
which were built for our noblest and our wisest, and our most 
truly sanctified prelates and divines—And will you, whom men 
call the standard-bearer of the true Protestant faith, be con- 
tented to wear the emblem and mark of such a Romisa tyrant 
as he of Spain?” 

“Oh, content you, my love,” answered the Eari; “we who 


KENILWORTH. 64 


spread our sails to gales of court favor, cannot always display 
the ensigns we love the best, or at all times refuse sailing under 
colors which we like not. Believe me, I am not the less good 
Protestant, that for policy I must accept the honor offered me 
by Spain, in admitting me to this his highest order of knight- 
hood. Besides, it belongs properly to Flanders ; and Egmont, 
Orange and others, have pride in seeing it displayed on an 
English bosom.” 

“Nay, my lord, you know your own path best,” replied the 
Countess.—‘ And this other collar, to what country does this 
fair jewel belong?” 

_ “To avery poor one, my love,” replied the Earl ; “this is 
the Order of Saint Andrew, revived by the last James of Scot- 
land, It was bestowed on me when it was thought the young 
widow of France and Scotland would gladly have wedded an 
English baron; but a free coronet of England is worth a 
crown matrimonial held at the humor of a woman, and owning 
only the poor rocks and bogs of the north.” 

The Countess paused, as if what the Earl last said had 
excited some: painful but interesting train of thought; and, as 
she still remained silent, her husband proceeded. 

“And now, loveliest, your wish is gratified, and you have 
seen your vassal in such of his trim array as accords with rid- 
ing vestments; for robes of state and coronets are only for 
princely halls.” 

“Well, then,” said the Countess, “my gratified wish has, as 
usual, given rise to a new one.” 

“‘ And what is it thou canst ask that I can deny ?”’ said the 
fond husband. | 

“‘T wish to see my Earl visit this obscure and secret bower,” 
said the Countess, “in all his princely array; and now, me- 
thinks, I long to sit in one of his princely halls, and see him 
enter dressed in sober russet, as when he won poor Amy Rob- 
sart’s heart.” 

“That is a wish easily granted,” said the Earl— the sober 
russet shall be donned to-morrow, if you will.” 

“‘ But shall I,” said the lady, “go with you to one of your 
castles, to see how the richness of your dwelling will correspond 
with your peasant habit?” 

“Why, Amy,” said the Earl, looking around, “are not these 
apartments: decorated with sufficient splendor? I gave the 
most unbounded order, and methinks it has been indifferently 
well obeyed—but if thou canst tell me aught which remains to 
be done, I wil) instantly give direction.” 

“Nay, my lord, now you mock me,” replied the Countess ; 


64 | KENILWORTH. 


“the gayety of this rich lodging exceeds my imagination as 
much as it does my desert.—But shail not your wife, my love 
—at least one day soon—be surrounded with the honor which 
arises neither from the toils of the mechanic who decks her 
apartment, nor from the silks and jewels with which your 
venerosity adorns her, but which is attached to her place among 
che matronage, as the avowed wife of England’s noblest Earl?” 

“One day?” said her husband,—“ Yes, Amy, my love, one 
day this shall surely happen; and, believe me, thou canst not 
wish for that day more fondly than I. With what rapture 
could I retire from labors of state, and cares and toils of 
ambition, to spend my life in dignity and honor on my own 
broad domains, with thee, my lovely Amy, for my friend and 
companion! But, Amy, this cannot yet be ; and these dear but 
stolen interviews, are all Ican give to the loveliest and the best 
beloved of her sex.” 

“ But wy can it not be?” urged the Countess, in the softest 
tones of persuasion,—‘‘ Why can it not immediately take place 
——this more perfect, this uninterrupted union, for which you say 
you wish, and which the iaws of God and man alike command ? 
—Ah ! did you but desire it half as much as you say, mighty 
and favored as you are, who, or what, should bar rps attain- 
ing your wish ?”’ 

The Earl’s brow was overcast. 

“Amy,” he said, “you speak of what you understand not. 
We that toil in courts are like those who climb a mountain of 
loose sand—we dare make no halt until some projecting rock 
affords usa secure footing and resting-place—if we pause sooner 
we slide down by our own weight, an object of universal 
derision. I stand high, but I stand not secure enough to follow 
my Own inclination. To declare my marriage were to be the 
artificer of my own ruin. But, believe me, I will reach a point, 
and that speedily, when I can do justice to thee and to myself, 
Meantime poison not the bliss of the present moment by desir- 
ing, that; which cannot at present be. Let me rather know 
whether all here is managed to thy liking. How does Foster 
bear himself to you ?—In all things respectful, I trust, else’ the 
fellow shall dearly rue it.” 

“‘ He reminds me sometimes of the necessity of peal privacy,” 
answered the lady, with a sigh; “ but that is reminding me of 
your wishes, and therefore, I am rather bound to him than dis 
posed to blame him for it.” 

““T have told. you the stern necessity which is upon us,” 
replied the Earl. ‘ Fosteris, I note, somewhat sullen of mood, 
but. Varney warrants to me his fidelity and devotion to my 


KENILIVORTH.  & 
service. If thou hast aught, however, to complain of the mode 
in which he discharges his duty, he shall abye it.” 

“Oh, I have nought to complain of,” answered the lady, “so 
he discharges his task with fidelity to you; and his daughter 
Janet is the kindest and best companion of my solitude—her 
little air of precision sits so well upon her!” 

“Is she indeed?” said the Earl; “she who gives you 
pleasure must not pass unrewarded.—Come hither, damsel.” 

“ Janet,” said the lady, “come hither to my lord.” 

Janet, who, as we already noticed, had discreetly retired to 
some distance, that her presence might be no check upon the 
private conversation of her lord and lady, now came forward, 
and as she made her reverential courtesy, the Earl could not 
help smiling at the contrast which the extreme simplicity of her 
dress and the prim demureness of her looks made with a very 
pretty countenance anda pair of black eyes, that laughed in spite 
- of their mistress’s desire to look grave. 

‘*T am bound to you, pretty damsel,” said the Ear], “‘ for the 
contentment which your service hath given to this lady.” As 
he said this, he took from his finger a ring of some price, and 
offered it to Janet Foster, adding, ‘“‘ Wear this for her sake an 
for mine.” | 

“T am well pleased, my lord,’ answered Janet, demurely, 
“that my poor service hath gratified my lady, whom no one can 
draw nigh to without desiring to please ; but we of the precious 
Master Holdforth’s congregation seek not, like the gay daughters 
of this world, to twine gold around our fingers, or wear stones 
upon our necks, like the vain women of Tyre and of Sidon.” 

“Oh, what! you are a grave professor of the precise sister- 
hood, pretty Mistress Janet,” said the Earl, ‘and I think your 
father is of the same congregation in sincerity. I lke you both 
the better for it; for I have been prayed for, and wished well to 
in your congregations. And you may the better afford the lack 
of ornament, Mistress Janet, because your fingers are slender, 
and your neck white. But here is what neither papist nor 
puritan, latitudinarian, nor precisian, ever boggles or makes 
mouths at. E’en take it, my girl, and employ it as you list.” 

So saying, he put into her hand five broad gold pieces of 
Philip and Mary. 

“T would not accept this gold neither,” said Janet, “ but 
that I hope to find a use for it, which will bring a blessing on 
us all,” 

“ Even please thyself, pretty Janet,” said the Earl, “and I 
sha'l be well satisfied—And I prithee let them hasten the 
evening collation,” 


66 KENILWORTH. 


“JT have bidden Master Varney and Master Foster to sup 
with us, my lord,” said the Countess, as Janet retired to obey 
the Earl’s commands; “ has it your approbation?” 

‘“‘ What you do ever must have so, my sweet Amy,” replied 
her husband ; “and | am the better pleased thou hast done them 
this grace, because Richard Varney is my sworn man, and aclose 
brother of my secret council; and for the present I must needs 
repose much trust in this Anthony Foster.” 

‘“‘T had a boon to beg of thee, and a secret to tell thee, my 
dear lord,” said the Countess with a faltering accent. 

‘Let both be for to-morrow, my love,” replied the Earl. “I 
see they open the folding-doors into the banqueting-parlor, and 
as I have ridden far and fast, a cup of wine will not be un- 
acceptable.” 

So saying, he led his lovely wife into the next apartment, 
where Varney and Foster received them with the deepest 
reverences, which the first paid with the fashion of the court,” 
and the second after that of the congregation. The Earl 
returned their salutation with the negligent courtesy of one 
long used to such homage ; while the Countess repaid it with a 
punctilious solicitude, which showed it was not quite so familiar 
to her. 

The banquet at which the company seated themselves, corre- 
sponded in magnificence with the splendor of the apartment in 
which it was served up, but no domestic gave his attendance. 
Janet alone stood ready to wait upon the company ; and, indeed, 
the board was so well supplied with all that could be desired, 
that little or no assistance was necessary. The Earl and his 
lady occupied the upper end of the table, and Varney and 
Foster sat beneath the salt, as was the custom with inferiors, 
The latter, overawed perhaps by society to which he was alto- 
gether unused, did not utter a single syllable during the repast; 
while Varney, with great tact and discernment, sustained just 
as much of the conversation, as, without the. appearance of in- 
trusion on his part, prevented it from languishing, and main- 
tained the good humor of the Earl at the highest pitch. This 
man was indeed highly qualified by nature to discharge the part, 
in which he found himself placed, being discreet and cautious 
on the one hand, and on the other, quick, keen-witted, and im- 
aginative ; so that even the Countess, prejudiced as she was 
against him on many accounts, felt and enjoyed his powers of 
conversation, and was more disposed than she had ever hith- 
erto found herself, to join in the praises which the Earl lavished 
on his favorite, The hour of rest at length arrived; the Earl 


KENILWORTH. 67 


and Countess retired to their apartment; and all was silent in 
the castle for the rest of the night. 

Early on the ensuing morning, Varney acted as the Earl’s 
chamberlain, as well as his master of horse, though the latter 
was his proper office in that magnificent household, where 
knights and gentlemen of good descent were well contented to 
hold such menial situations, as nobles themselves held in that 
of the sovereign. ‘The duties of each of these charges were 
familiar to Varney, who, sprung from an ancient but decayed 
family, was the Earl’s page during his earlier and more obscure 
fortunes, and faithful to him in adversity, had afterward con- 
trived to render himself no less useful to him in his rapid and 
splendid advance to fortune; thus establishing in him an in- 
terest, resting both on present and past services, which ren- 
dered him an almost indispensable sharer of his confidence. 

“Help me to don a plainer riding suit, Varney,” said the 
Farl, as he laid aside his morning-gown, flowered with silk, and 
lined with sables, “and put these chains and fetters there” 
(pointing to the collars of the various Orders which lay on the 
table) “into their place of security—my neck last night was 
well-nigh broke with the weight of them. Iam haif of the 
mind that they shall gall me no more. ‘They are bonds which 
knaves have invented to fetter fools. How think’st thou, 
Varney?” 

“Faith, my good lord,” said his attendant, “ I think fetters 
of gold are like no other fetters—they are ever the weightier 
the welcomer.” 

“ For all that, Varney,” replied his master, “1 am well-nigh 
resolved they shall bind me to the court no longer. What can 
further service and higher favor give me, beyond the high rank 
and large estate which I have already secured ?—What brought 
my father to the block, but that he could not bound his wishes 
within right and reason ?—I have, you know, had mine own 
ventures and mine own escapes: I am well-nigh resolved to 
tempt the sea no further, but sit me down in quiet on the 
shore.” 

“And gather cockle-shells, with Dan Cupid to aid you,” 
said Varney. 

“Tiow mean you by that, Varney?” said the Earl, some- 
what hastily. 

“ Nay, my lord,” said Varney, “be not angry with me. If 
your lordship is happy in a lady so rarely lovely, that in order 
to enjoy her company with somewhat more freedom, you are 
willing to part with all you have hitherto lived for, some of 
your poor servants may be sufferers; but your bounty hath 


68 KENILWORTH. 


placed me so high, that I shall ever have enough to maintain a 
poor gentleman in the rank befitting the high office he has held 
in your lordship’s family.” 

_ “Yet you seem discontented when I propose throwing up a 
dangerous game, which may end in the ruin of both of us,” 

“TI, my lord?” said Varney; “surely I have no cause to 
regret your lordship’s retreat !—It will not be Richard Varney 
who will incur the displeasure of majesty, and the ridicule of 
the court, when the stateliest fabric that ever was founded upon 
a prince’s favor melts away like a morning frost-work.—I 
would only have you yourself to be assured, my lord, ere you 
take a step which cannot be retracted, that you consult your 
fame and happiness in the course you propose.” 

‘Speak on then, Varney,” said the Earl; ‘I tell thee I 
have determined nothing, and will weigh all considerations on 
either side.” 

“Well, then, my lord, replied Varney, ‘“‘ we will suppose 
the step taken, the frown frowned, the laugh laughed, and the 
moan moaned. You have retired, we will say, to some one 
of your most distant castles, so far from court that you hear 
neither the sorrow of your friends, nor the glee of your enemies. 
We will suppose, too, that your successful rival will be satisfied 
(a thing greatly to be doubted) with abridging and cutting away 
the branches of the great tree which so long kept the sun from 
him, and that he does not insist upon tearing you up by the roots. 
Well; the late prime favorite of England, who wielded her 
general’s staff and controled her parlaiments, is now a rural 
baron, hunting, hawking, drinking fat ale with country esquires, 
and mustering his men at the command of the High Sheriff ” 

“Varney, forbear!” said the Earl. 

“Nay, my lord, you must give me leave to conclude my 
picture.—Sussex governs England—the Queen’s health fails— 
the succession is to be settled—a road is opened to ambition 
more splendid than ambition ever dreamed of.—You hear all 
this as you sit by the hob, under the shade of your hall 
chimney—You then begin to think what hopes you have fallen 
from, and what insignificance you have embraced—and all that 
you might look babies in the eyes of your fair wife oftener than 
once a-fortnight.” 

“I say, Varney,” said the Earl, ‘no more of this. I said 
not that the step, which my own ease and comfort would urge 
me to, was to be taken hastily, or without due consideration te 
the public safety. Bear witness to me, Varney ; 1 subdue my 
wishes of retirement, not because Iam moved by the call of 
private ambition, but that 1 may preserve the position in which 


KENILWORTH. 69 


i may best serve my country at the hour of need.—Order our 
horses presently—I will wear, as formerly, one of the livery 
cloaks, and ride before the portmantle.—Thou shalt be master 
for the day, Varney—neglect nothing that can blind suspicion. 
We will to horse ere men are stirring. I will but take leave of 
my lady, and be ready. I impose a restraint on my own poor 
heart, and wound one yet more dear to me; but the patriot 
must subdue the husband.” 

Having said this in a melancholy but firm accent, he left the 
dressing apartment. 

“Tam glad thou art gone,” thought Varney, “ or, practiced 
as I am in the follies of mankind, I had laughed in the very 
face of thee! Thou mayest tire as thou wilt of thy new bauble, 
thy pretty piece of painted Eve’s flesh there, I will not be thy 
hindrance. But of thine own bauble, ambition, thou shalt not 
tire, for as you climb the hill, my lord, you must drag Richard 
Varney up with you ; and if he can urge you to the ascent he 
means to profit by, believe me he will spare neither whip nor 
spur.—And for you, my pretty lady, that would be Countess 
outright, you were best not thwart my courses, lest you are 
called to an old reckoning on a new score. ‘Thou shalt be 
master,’ did he say !—By my faith, he may find that he spoke 
truer than he is aware of—And thus he, who, in the estimation 
of so many wise-judging men, can match Burleigh and Wal- 
singham in policy, and Sussex in war, becomes pupil to his own 
menial; and all for a hazel eye and a little cunning red and 
white—and so falls ambition. And yet if the charms of mortal 
woman could excuse a man’s politic pate for becoming be- 
wildered, my lord had the excuse at his right hand on this 
blessed evening that has last passed over us. Well—let things 
roll as they may, he shall make me great, or I will make myself 
happy; and for that softer piece of creation, if she speak not 
out her interview with Tressilian, as well I think she dare not, 
she also must traffic with me for concealment and mutual 
support in spite of all this scorn.—I must tothe stables.—Well, 
my lord, | order your retinue now; the time may soon come 
that my master of the horse shall order mine own. What was 
Thomas Cromwell but a smith’s son, and he died my lord—on 
a scaffold, doubtless, but that too was in character—And what 
_was Ralph Sadler but the Clerk of Cromwell, and he has gazed 
eighteen fair lordships,—z7@ / I know my steerage as well as 
they.” 

So saying, he left the apartment. 

In the meanwhile, the Earl had re-entered the bedchamber, 
bent on taking a hasty farewell of the lovely Countess, and 


40 KENILWORTH. 


scarce daring to trust himself in private with her, to hear 
requests again urged, which he found it difficult to parry, yet 
which his recent conversation with his master of horse had 
determined him not to grant. 

He found her in a white cymar of silk lined with furs, her 
little feet unstockinged and hastily thrust into slippers , her 
unbraided hair escaping from under her midnight coif, with 
little array but her own loveliness, rather augmented than 
diminished by the grief which she felt at the approaching 
moment of separation. 

‘“* Now, God be with thee, my dearest and loveliest!” said the 
Earl, scarce teariny himself from her embrace, yet again return- 
ing to fold her again and again in his arms, and again bidding 
farewell, and again returning to kiss and bid adieu once more. 

“The sun is on the verge of the blue horizon—I dare not 
stay. Ere this I should have been ten miles from hence.” 

Such were the words, with which at length he strove to cut 
short their parting interview. 

“You will not grant my request, then? ”? said the Countess. 
“* Ah, false knight! did ever lady, with bare foot in slipper, 
seek boon of a brave knight, yet return with denial ?” 

“Anything, Amy, anything thou canst ask I will grant,” 
answered the Farl-—“‘ always excepting,” he said, “that which 
might ruin us both.” 

““ Nay,” said the Countess, “I urge not my wish to be ac- 
knowledged in the character which would make me the envy of 
Kngland—as the wife, that is, of my brave and noble lord, the 
first as the most fondly beloved of English nobles,—Let me 
but share the secret with my dear father !—Let me but end his 
misery on my unworthy account—they -say he is ill, the good 
old kind-hearted man.” 

‘“ They say ?”’ asked the Earl, hastily; who says? Did not 
Varney convey to Sir Hugh all we dare at present tell him con- 
cerning your happiness and welfare? and has he not told you 
that the good old knight was following with good heart and 
health, his favorite and wonted exercise? Who has dared put 
other thoughts into your head ?” 

“Oh, no one, my lord, no one,” said the Countess, something 
alarmed at the tone in which the question was put; “ but yet, 
my lord, I would fain be assured by mine own eye- -sight that my. 
father is well.” 

“Be contented, Amy—thou canst not now have communica- 
tion with thy father or his house. Were it not a deep course 
of policy to commit no secret unnecessarily to the custody of 
more than must needs be, it were sufficient reason for secrecy, 


KENILWORTH. 71 


that yonder Cornish man, yonder Trevanion, or Tressilian, or 
whatever his name is, haunts the old knight’s house, and must 
necessarily know whatever is communicated there.” 

“ My lord,” answered the Countess, “I do not think it so. 
My father has been long noted a worthy and honorable man ; 
and for Tressilian, if we can pardon ourselves the ill we have 
wrought him, I will wager the coronet I am to share with you 
one day, that he is incapable of returning injury for injury.” 

“JT will not trust him, however, Amy,” said her husband ; 
“by my honor, I will not trust him—TI would rather the foul 
fiend intermingle in our secret than this Tressilian!”’ 

“And why, my lord?” said the Countess, though she shud- 
dered slightly at the tone of determination in which he spoke ; 
“let me but know why you think thus hardly of Tressilian ?” 

“ Madam,” replied the Earl, “my will ought to be sufficient 
reason—If you desire more, consider how this Tressilian is 
leaguéd, and with whom—He stands high in the opinion of 
this Radcliffe, this Sussex, against whom I am barely able to 
maintain my ground in the opinion of our suspicious mistress ; 
and if he had me at such advantage, Amy, as to become ac- 
quainted with the tale of our marriage, before Elizabeth were 
fitly prepared, I were an outcast from her grace forever—a 
bankrupt at once in favor and in fortune, perhaps, for she hath 
in her a touch of her father Henry,—a victim, and it may be a 
bloody one, to her offended and jealous resentment.” 

“But why, my lord,” again urged his lady, “should you 
deem thus injuriously of a man of whom you know so little? 
What you do know of Tressilian is through me, and it is I who 
assure you that in no circumstances will he betray your secret. 
If I did him wrong in your behalf, my lord, I am now the more 
concerned you should do him justice.—You are offended at my 
speaking of him, what would you say had I actually myself seen 
him?” 

“Tf you had,” replied the Earl, “ you would do well to keep 
that interview as secret as that which is spoken in a confessional. 
I seek no one’s ruin; but he who thrusts himself on my secret 
privacy, were better look well to his future walk. The bear* 
brooks no one to cross his awful path.” 

“ Awful, indeed!” said the Countess, turning very pale. 

“ You are ill, my love,” said the Earl, supporting her in his 
arms ; ‘stretch yourself on your couch again ; it is but an early 
day for you to leave it—Have you aught else, involving less 
than my fame, my fortune, and my life, to ask of me?” 


* The Leicester cognizance was the ancient device adopted by his father, 
when Earl of Warwick, the bear and ragged staff, 


72 KENILWORTH. 


” Nothing, my lord and love,” answered the Countess, 
faintly: ‘‘ something there was that I would have told you, bur 
your anger has wT doe: it from my recollection.” 

“ Reserve ic till our next meeting, my love,” said the Earl, 
fondly, and again embracing her; “ and barring only those re- 
quests which Tcannot and dare not grant, thy wish must be 
more than England and all its dependencies can fulfil, if it is 
not gratified to the letter.” 

Thus saying, he at length took farewell. At the bottom of 
the staircase he received from Varney an ample livery cloak 
‘and slouched hat, in which he wrapped, himself so as to dis- 
guise his person, and completely conceal his features. Horses 
were ready in the courtyard for himself and Varney ;—for one 
or two of his train, intrusted with the secret so far as to know 
or guess that the Earl intrigued with a beautiful lady at that 
mansion, though her name and quality were unknown to them, 
had already been dismissed over night. 

Anthony. Foster himself had in hand the rein of He, Earl’s 
palfrey, a stout and able nag for the road; while his old 
serving-man held the bridle of the more showy and gallant 
steed which Richard Varney was to occupy in the character of 
master. 

As the Earl approached, however, Varney advanced to hold 
his master’s bridle, and to prevent Foster from paying that 
duty to the Earl, which he probably considered as belonging to 
his own office.. Foster scowled at an interference which seemed 
intended to prevent his paying his court to his patron, but gave 
place to Varney; and the Earl, mounting without further 
observation, and forgetting that his assumed character of a 
domestic threw him into the rear of his supposed master, rode 
pensively out of the quadrangle, not without waving his hand 
repeatedly in answer to the signals which were made by the 
Countess with her kerchief, from the windows of her apart- 
ment. 

While his stately form vanished under the dark archway 
which led out of the quadrangle, Varney muttered, “ There 
goes fine policy—the servant before the master ! ” then as he 
disappeared, seized the moment to speak a word with Foster. 
“Thou look’st dark on me, Anthony,” he said, “ as if I had 
deprived thee of a parting nod of my lord ; but I have moved 
him to leave thee a better remembrance for thy fathful service. 
See here !.a purse. of as good gold as ever chinked under a 
miser’s thumb and forefinger. Ay, count them, lad,” said he, 
as Foster received the gold with a grim smile; “‘ and add te 
them the goodly remembrance he gave last night to Janet.” 


KENILWORTH. 42 


‘“* How’s this ! how’s this!” said Anthony Foster, hastily, 
gave he gold to Janet ? ” 

** Ay, man, wherefore not ?—does not her service to his fair 
lady require guerdon ?” 

“ She shall have none on’t,” said Foster ; “‘ she shall return 
it, I know his dotage on one face is as brief as it is deep. 
His affections are as fickle as the moon.’ 

“ Why, Foster, thou art mad—thou dost not hope for such 

good fortune as that my lord should cast an eye on Janet ?— 
Who, in the fiend’s name, would listen to the thrush when the 
nightingale i is singing ? 2” 
- “ Thrush or nightingale, all is one to the fowler; and, Master 
Varney, you can sound the quailpipe most daintily to wile 
wantons into his nets. I desire no such devil’s preferment-for 
Janet as you have brought many a poor maiden to—Dost thou 
laugh ?—I will keep one limb of my family, at least from 
Satan’s clutches, that thou mayest rely on—She shall restore 
the gold.” 

< Ay, or give it to thy keeping, Tony, which will serve as 
well,”’ answered Varney ; “but I have that to say which is 
more serious.—Our lord is returning to court in an evil humor 
for us.” 

** How meanest thou ?” said Foster. “ Is he tired already 
of his pretty toy—his plaything yonder? Hehas purchased her 
at amonarch’s ransom, and I warrant me he rues his bargain.” 

“ Not a whit, Tony,” answered the master of the horse ; “‘ he 
dotes on her, and will forsake the court for her—then down go 
hopes, possessions, and safety—church lands are resumed, 
Tony, and well if the holders be not called to account in Ex- 
chequer.” 

- “That were ruin,” said Foster, his brow darkening with 
apprehensions ; “‘ and ail this for a woman !—He it been for 
his soul’s sake, it were something ; and I sometimes wish I my- 
self could fling away the world that cleaves to me, and be as one 
of the poorest of our church.” 

“Thou art like enough to be so, Tony,” answered Varney ; 
“ but I think the devil will give thee little credit for thy com- 
pelled poverty, and so thou losest on all hands. But follow my 
counsel, and Cumnor Place shall be thy coyphold yet—Say 
nothing of this Tressilian’s visit—not a word until I give thee 
notice.” 

“ And wherefore, ‘I pray you ?” asked Foster suspiciously. 

** Dull beast!” replied Varney ;\ “in my lord’s present 
humor it were the ready way to confirm him in his resolution of 
retirement, should he know that his lady was haunted with such 


) 


4A RENILWORTH. 


a spectre in his absence. He would be for playing the dragon 
himself over his golden fruit, and then, Tony, thy occupation is 
ended. <A word to the wise—Farewell—I must follow him.” 

He turned his horse, struck him with the spurs, and rode off 
under the archway in pursuit of his lord. 

“Would thy occupation were ended, or thy neck broken, 
damned pander!” said Anthony Foster. ‘‘ But I must follow 
his beck, for his interest and mine are the same, and he can 
wind the proud Earl to his will. Janet shall give me these 
pieces, though—they shall be laid out in some way for God’s 
service, and I will keep them separate in my strong chest till 
I can fall upon a fitting employment for them. No contagious 
vapor shall breathe on. Janet—she shall remain pure as a bless- 
ed spirit, were it but to pray God for her father. I need her 
prayers, for I am at a hard pass—Strange reports are abroad 
concerning my way of life. The congregation lock cold on me, 
and when Master Holdforth spoke of hypocrites being like a 
whited sepulchre, which within was full of dead men’s bones, me- 
thought he looked full atme. The Romish was a comfortable 
faith ; Lambourne spoke true in that. A man had but to fol- 
low his thrift by such ways as offered—tell his beads—hear a 
mass—confess, and be absolved. These Puritans tread a 
harder and a rougher path; but I will try—I. will read my 
Bible for an hour ere I again open mine iron chest.” 

Varney, meantime, spurred after his lord, whom he found 
waiting for him at the postern-gate of the park. 

“* You waste time, Varney,” said the Earl; ‘‘and it presses, 
I must be at Woodstock before I can safely lay aside my dis- 
guise; and till then, I journey in some peril.” 

“Tt is but two hours’ brisk riding, my lord,” said Varney ; 
“for me, I only stopped to enforce your commands of care and 
secrecy on yonder Foster, and to inquire about the abode of 
the gentleman whom I would promote to younlopdsbi s train, 
in the room of Trevors.”’ 

“Ts he fit for the meridian of the antechamber, think’st 
thou?” said the Earl. 

‘“He promises well, my lord,” replied Varney ; “but if 
your lordship were pleased to ride on, I could go back to 
Cumnor, and bring him to your lordship at Woodstock before 
you are out of bed.” 

‘““Why, I am asleep. there, thou knowest, at this moment,” 
said the Earl: ‘and I pray you not to spare. horse-flesh, that 
you may be with me at my levee.” 

So saying, he gave his horse the spur, and proceeded on his 
journey, while Varney rode back to Cumnor by the public road, 


KENILWORTH. He 


avoiding the park. The latter alighted at the door of the Bonny 
Black Bear, and desired to speak with Master Michael Lam- 
bourne. That respectable character was not long of appearing 
before his new patron, but it was with downcast looks. 

“Thou has lost the scent,’’ said Varney, “ of thy comrade 
Tressilian.—I know it by thy hang-dog visage. Is this thy 
alacrity, thou impudent knave ? ” 

““ Cogswounds !”’ said Lambourne, “ there was never a trail 
so finely hunted. I saw him to earth at mine uncle’s here— 
stuck to him like bees’ wax—saw him at supper—watched him 
to his chamber, and presto—he is gone next morning, the very 
hostler knows not where!” 

‘“‘ This sounds like practice upon me, sir,” replied Varney ; 
‘and if it proves so, by my soul you shall repent it!” 

“Sir, the best hound will be sometimes at fault,’’ answered 
Lambourne; ‘‘ how should it serve me that this fellow should 
have thus evanished? You may ask mine host, Giles Gosling 
—ask the tapster and hostler—ask Cicely, and the whole house- 
hold, how I kept eyes on Tressilian while he was on foot.—On 
my soul, I could not be expected to watch him lke a sick-nurse, 
when I have seen him a-bedin his chamber. ‘This wil] be 
allowed me surely.” 

Varney did, in fact, make some inquiry among the household, 
which confirmed the truth of Lambourne’s statement. ‘Tressil- 
jan, it was unanimously agreed, had departed suddenly and un- 
expectedly, betwixt night and morning. 

** But I will wrong no one,” said mine host; “he left onthe 
table in his lodging the full value of his reckoning, with some 
allowance to the servants of the house, which was the less nec- 
essary, that he saddled his own gelding, as it seems, without 
the hostler’s assistance.” 

Thus satisfied of the rectitude of Lambourne’s conduct, 
Varney began to talk tohim upon his future prospects, and the 
mode in which he meant to bestow himself, intimating that he 
understood from Foster he was not disinclined to enter into the 
household of a nobleman. 

*¢ Have you,” said he, ‘‘ ever been at court 

** No,” replied Lambourne ; ‘but ever since I was ten years 
old; I have dreamt once a-week that I was there, and made my 
fortune.” | 

“ Tt may be your own fault if your dream comes not true,” 
said Varney. ‘Are you needy?” 

“Um!” replied Lambourne ; “I love pleasure.” 

** That is a sufficient answer, and an honest one,” said Var- 


1? 


nb KENTLWORTH. 


ney. “ Know you aught of the requisites expected from the re 
tainer of a rising courtier?’ 

“T have imagined them to myself, sir,’’ answered Gambertnes 
“as, for example; a quick eye—a close mouth—a ready and bold 
hand—a sharp wit, and a blunt conscience.” 

‘“‘And thine, I suppose,” said Varney, “has had its edge 
blunted long since ? ” 

‘“‘T cannot remember, sir, that its edge was ever over keen,” 
replied Lambourne. ‘“ When I was a “youth, I had some few 
whimsies, but I rubbed them partly out of my recollection on 
the rough grindstone of the wars, and what remained I washed 
out in the broad waves of the Atlantic.” 

“Thou hast served, then, in the Indies?” 

“Tn both East and West,”’ answered the candidate for court- 
service, “ by both sea and land ; I have served both the Portu- 
gal and the Spaniard—both’the Dutchman and the French- 
man, and have made war on our own account with a crew 
of jolly fellows, who held there was no peace beyond the 
ines% . 

“Thou mayest do me, and my lord, and thyself good service,” 
said Varney, after a pause. ‘ But observe, I know the world 
—and answer me truly, canst thou be faithful ?” | 

“Did you not know the world,” answered Lambourne, “ it 
were my duty to say ay, without further circumstance, and ‘to 
swear to it with life and honor, and so forth. But as it seems 
to me that your worship is one who desires rather honest truth 
than politic falsehood—I reply to. you, that I can be faithfnl to 
the gallows foot ; ay, to the loop that dangles from it, if I am 
well used and well recompensed ; not otherwise.” 

“To thy other virtues thou canst add, no doubt,” said Var-- 
ney, in a jeering tone, ‘‘the knack of seeming serious and relig- 
ious when the moment demands it ?” 

‘“‘ Tt would cost me nothing,’ said Lambourne, “ to say yes— 
but, to speak on the square, I must needs say no. » If you want 
a hypocrite, you may take Anthony Foster, who, from his child- 
hood, had some sort of phantom haunting him, which he called 
religion, though it was that sort of goodness which always ended 
in biing great g gain. But I have no ‘such knack of it.” 

“Well,” replied Varney, “if. thou hast no hypocrisy, hast 
thou not a nag here in the stable ?” 

‘Ay, siry’ said Lambourne, ‘ that shall take hedge and ditch 
with my Lord Duke’s best hunters, When I made- a little 
mistake on Shooter’s Hill, and stopped an ancient grazier whose 


* Sir Francis Drake, Morgan, and many a bold Buccanier of those days, 
were, in fact, little better than pirates, 


KENILWORTH, "'y 


pouches were better lined than his brain-pan, the bonny bay 
nag carried me sheer off in spite of the whole hue and cry.” 

“Saddle him then, instantly, and attend me,” said Varney. 
** Leave thy clothes and baggage under charge of mine host, 
and I will conduct thee to a service, in which, if thou do 
not better thyself, the fault shall not be fortune’s, but thine 
own,”’. 

“Brave and hearty! ’’ said Lambourne, “and I am mounted 
in,an instant.—Knave hostler, saddle my nag without the loss 
of.an instant, as thou dost value the safety of thy noddle— 
Pretty Cicely, take half this purse to comfort thee for my sud- 
den departure.” 

‘“Gogsnouns !” replied the father, ‘‘ Cicely wants no such 
token from thee—Go away, Mike, and gather grace if thou 
canst, though I think thou goest not to the land where it 
grows.” 

“‘ Let me look at this Cicely of thine, mine hos:,” said Var- 
ney ; “‘ | have heard much talk of her beauty.” 

“It is a sunburnt beauty,” said mine host, ‘ well qualified 
to. stand out rain and wind, but little calculated to please such 
critical gallants as yourself. She keeps her chamber, and can- 
not encounter the glance of such sunny-day courtiers as my 
noble guest.” 

* Well, peace be with her, my good host,” answered Varney ; 
“our horses are impatient—we bid you good day.” 

** Does my nephew go with you, so please you?” said Gos- 
ling. © 

., “Ay, such is his purpose,” answered, Richard Varney. 

“You are right—fully right,” replied mine host—“ you are, 
I say; fully right, my kinsman. Thou hast got a gay horse, see 
thou light not unaware upon a halter—or, if thou wilt needs 
be made immortal by means of a rope, which thy purpose of 
following this gentleman renders not unlikely, I.charge thee to 
find,a gallows as far from Cumnor as thou conveniently mayest ; 
and so J.command you to your saddle.” 

The master of the horse and his new retainer mounted 
accordingly, leaving the landlord to conclude his ill-omened 
farewell, to himself and at leisure; and set off together at a 
rapid'pace, which prevented conversation until the ascent of a 
steep sandy hill permitted them to resume it. 

“ You are contented then,” said Varney to his companion, 
“to take court-service ?” 

* Ay, worshipful ‘sir, if you like my terms as well as I like 

ours.” | . 
“Ana what are your terms?” demanded Varney, 


78 KENILWORTH. 


“Tf I am to have a quick eye for my patron’s interest, he 
must have a dull one toward my faults,” said Lambourne. 

“Ay,” said Varney, “so they lie not so grossly open that 
he must needs break his shins over them.” 

“¢ Agreed,” said Lambourne. “ Next, if I run down game, 
I must have the picking of the bones.” 

“'Thatis but reason,” replied Varney, “ so that your betters 
are served before you.” 

“Good,” said Lambourne ; “ and it only remains to be said, 
that if the law and I quarrel, my patron must bear me out, for 
that is a chief point. ® 

“Reason again,” said Varney, “if the quarrel hath happened 
in your master’s service.” 

“For the wage and so forth, I say nothing,’ proceeded 
Lambourne ; “it is the secret guerdon that I must live by.” 

“ Never fear,” said Varney; “thou shalt have clothes and 
spending money to ruffle it with the best of thy degree, for 
thou goest to a household where you have gold, as they say, by’ 
the eye. 

“That jumps all with my humor,” replied Michael Lam- 
bourne; “and it ae remains that you tell me my master’s S 
name.” 

“ My name is Master Richard Veiner answered his com- 
panion, 

“ But I mean,” said Lambourne, “the name of the noble 
lord to whose service you are to prefer me.” 

‘‘ How, knave, art thou too good to call me master?” said 
Varney, hastily ; “I would have thee bold to others, but not 
saucy to me. 

“I crave your worship’s pardon,” said Lambourne ; ‘but 
you seemed familiar ‘with cape ital Foster, now I'am familiar’ 
with Anthony myself.” 

“Thou arta shrewd knave, I see,’ ‘ replied Varies “4 Mate 
me—I do indeed propose to introduce thee into a nobleman’s 
household ; but it is uponmy person thou wilt chiefly wait, and 
upon my countenance that thou wilt depend. — Iam his master 
of horse—Thou wilt soon know his name—itis one that shakes 
the council and wields the state.’ 
~ “By this light, a brave spell to conjure with,” said Time 
bourne, “if a man ‘would discover hidden treasures !” 

“Used with discretion, it may prove so,” replied Varney ; 
“but mark—if thou conjure with it at thine own hand, it may 
raise a devil who will tear thee in fragments.” 

“Enough said,’ replied Lambourne ; “I will not exceed 
my limits.”’ f 


KENILWORTH, 79 


~The travelers then resumed the rapid rate of traveling which 
their discourse had interrupted, and soon arrived at the Royal 
Park of Woodstock. ‘This ancient possession of the crown of 
England was then very different from what it had been when it 
was the residence of the fair Rosamond, and the scene of 
Henry the Second’s secret and illicit amours ; and yet more 
unlike to the scene which it exhibits-in the present day, when 
Blenheim House commemorates the victory of Marlborough, 
and no less the genius of Vanburgh, though decried in his own 
time by persons of taste far inferior to his own. It was, in 
Elizabeth’s time, an ancient mansion in bad repair, which had 
long ceased to be honored with the royal residence, to the great 
impoverishment of the adjacent village. The inhabitants, how- 
ever, had made several petitions to the Queen to have the favor 
of the sovereign’s countenance occasionally bestowed tpon 
them; and upon this very business, ostensibly at least, was the 
noble lord, whom we have already introduced to our readers, a 
visitor at Woodstock. 

Varney and Lambourne galloped without ceremony into the 
courtyard of the ancient and dilapidated mansion, which 
presented on that morning a scene of bustle which it had not 
exhibited for two reigns. Officers of the Earl’s household, 
liverymen and retainers, went and came with all the insolent 
fracas which attaches to their profession. The neigh of horses 
and the baying of hounds were heard; for my lord, in ‘his 
occupation of inspecting and surveying the manor and demesne, 
was of course provided with the means of following his pleasure 
in the chase or park, said to have been the earliest that was 
enclosed in England, and which was well stocked with deer 
that had long roamed there unmolested. Several of the in- 
habitants of the village, in anxious hope of a favorable result 
from this unwonted visit, loitered about the courtyard, and 
awaited the' great man’s coming forth. ‘Their attention was 
excited by the hasty arrival of Varney, and a murmur ran 
amongst them, “The Earl’s master of the horse!” while they 
hurried to bespeak favor by hastily unbonneting, and _proffer- 
ing to hold the bridle and stirrup of the favored retainer and 
his attendant, 

“Stand somewhat aloof, my masters!” said Varney, haugh- 
tily, “‘ and let the domestics do their office.” 

The mortified citizens and peasants fell back at the signal ; 
while Lambourne, who had his eye upon his superior’s deport 
ment, repelled | the services of those who offered to assist him, 
with yet more discourtesy—‘ Stand back, Jack peasant, with a 
murrain to you, and let these knave footmen do their duty !” 


80 KENILWORTH. 


While they gave their nags to the attendants of the house 
hold, and walked into the mansion with an air of superiority 
which long practice and consciousness of birth rendered natural 
to Varney, and which Lambourne endeavored to imitate as 
well as he could, the poor inhabitants of Woodstock whispered 
to each other, ‘‘ Well-a-day—God save us from all such mis- 
proud princoxes! And the master be like the. men, why, the 
fiend may take all, and yet have no more than his due.” 

“Silence, good neighbors!’ said the Bailiff, “keep tongue 
betwixt teeth—we shall know more by and by.—-But never will 
a lord come to Woodstock so welcome as bluff old King Harry! 
He would horsewhip a fellow one day with his own royal hand, 
and then fling him an handful of silver groats, with his own 
broad face on “them, to ’noint the sore withal.” 

‘“ Ay, rest be with him |” echoed the auditors ; 7 “it will be 
long ere this Lady Elizabeth horsewhip any of us.’ 

“There is. no saying,” answered the Bailiff. Meanwhile, 
patience, good neighbors, and let us comfort ourselves by 
thinking that we deserve such notice at her Grace’s hands.” 

Meanwhile, Varney, closely followed by his new dependant, 
made his way to the hall, where men of more note, and conse- 
quence than those left in the courtyard awaited the appearance 
of the Earl, who.as yet kept his. chamber.. All paid court. to 
Varney, with more or less deference, as suited their own rank, 
or the urgency of the business which brought them to his lord’s 
levee. To the general question of, “When comes my lord 
forth, Master Varney?” he gave brief answers, as, “See you 
not my boots? JI am just returned from Oxford, and know 
nothing of it,” and the like, until/the same query was put in:a 
higher tone by a personage of more importance. ‘I will in- 
quire of the chamberlain, Sir Thomas Copely,” was the reply. 
The chamberlain, distinguished by his silver key, answered, 
that the Earl, only awaited Master Varney’s return to come 
down, but that he would. first speak with him in his private 
chamber. Varney, therefore, bowed to the company, and took 
leave, to'enter his lord’s apartment. 

There was a murmur of. expectation which lasted a few 
minutes, and was at length hushed by the opening of. the fold- 
ing-doors at the upper end. of the apartment, through which 
the Earl made his entrance, marshaled by his chamberlain and 
the steward of his family, and followed ‘by Richard Varney. 
In his noble mien and princely features, men read nothing of 
that insolence’ which was practiced .by his dependants. His 
courtesies were, indeed, measured by the rank of those to whom 
they were addressed, but even the meanest person present had 


KENILWORTH. Sr 


a share of his gracious notice. The inquiries which he made 
respecting the condition of the manor, of the Queen’s rights 
there, and of the advantages and disadvantages which might 
attend her occasional residence at the royal seat of Woodstock, 
seemed to show that he had most earnestly investigated the 
matter of the petition of the inhabitants, and with a desire to 
forward the interest of the place. 

“Now, the Lord love his noble countenance,” said the 
Bailiff, who had thrust himself into the presence-chamber ; 
“he looks somewhat pale. I warrant him he hath spent the 
whole night in perusing our memorial. Master Toughyarn, 
who took six months to draw it up, said it would take a week 
to understand it; and see if the Earl hath not knocked the 
marrow out of it in twenty-four hours.” 

The earl then acquainted them that he should move their 
sovereign to honor Woodstock occasionally with her residence 
during her royal progresses, that the town and its vicinity 
might derive, from her countenance and favor, the same ad- 
vantages as from those of her predecessors. Meanwhile he 
rejoiced to be the expounder of her gracious pleasure, in assuring 
them that, for the increase of trade, and encouragement of the 
worthy burgesses of Woodstock, her majesty was minded to 
erect the town into a Staple for wool. 

This joyful intelligence was received with the acclamations 
not only of the better sort who were admitted to the audience- 
chamber, but of the commons who awaited without. 

The freedom of the corporation was presented to the Earl 
upon knee by the magistrates of the place, together with a 
purse of gold pieces, which the Earl handed to Varney, who, 
on his part, gave a share to Lambourne, as ibs most acceptable 
earnest of his new service. 

The Earl and his retinue took horse soon after, to return to 
court, accompanied by the shouts of the inhabitants of Wood- 
stock, who made the old oaks ring with re-echoing, ‘‘ Long live 
Queen Elizabeth, and the noble Earl of Leicester!” The 
urbanity and courtesy of the Earl even threw a gleam of pop- 
ularity over his attendants, as their haughty deportment had 
formerly obscured that of their master; and men shouted, 
“Long life to the Earl, and to his gallant. followers!” as Var- 
ney and Lambourne, each in his ‘rank, rode proudly through 
the streets of Woodstock. 


82 KENILWORTH. 


CHAPTER EIGHTH. 


fTost.—I will hear you, Master Fenton; 
And I will, at least, keep your counsel. 
MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


Ir becomes necessary to return to the detail of those cir- 
cumstances which accompanied, and indeed occasioned, the 
sudden disappearance of Tressilian from the sign of the Black 
Bear at Cumnor. It will be recollected that this gentleman, 
after his rencounter with Varney, had returned to Giles 
Gosling’s caravansary, where he shut himself up in his own 
chamber, demanded pen, ink, and paper, and announced his 
purpose to remain private for the day: in the evening he 
appeared again in the public room, where Michael Lambourne, 
who had been on the watch for him, agreeably to his engage- 
ment to Varney, endeavored to renew his acquaintance with 
him, and hoped he retained no unfriendly recollection of the 
part he had taken in the morning’s scuffle. 

But Tressilian repelled his advances firmly, though with 
civility—“ Master Lambourne,” said he, “I trust I have recom- 
pensed to your pleasure the time you have wasted on me. 
Under the show of wild bluntness which you exhibit, I know 
you have sense enough to understand me, when I say frankly, 
that the object of our temporary acquaintance having been. 
accomplished, we must be strangers to each other in future.” 

“* Voto /” said Lambourne, twirling his whiskers with one 
hand, and grasping the hilt of his weapon with the other ; “if 
I thought that this usage was meant to insult me ’”—— 

“You would bear it with discretion, doubtless,” interrupted 
Tressilian, “as you must do at any rate. You know too well. 
the distance that is betwixt us, to require me to explain myself: 
further—Good evening.” 

So saying, he turned his back upon his former companion, 
and entered into discourse with the landlord. Michael Lam- 
bourne felt strongly disposed to bully; but his wrath died away 
in a few incoherent oaths and ejaculations, and he sank unre- 
sistingly under the ascendency which superior spirits possess 
over persons of his habits and description. He remained 
moody and silent in a corner of the apartment, paying the most 
marked attention to every motion of his late companion, against 
whom he began now to nourish a quarrel on his own account, 


KENILWORTH. 83 


which he trusted to avenge by the execution of his new master 
Varney’s directions. The hour of supper arrived, and was 
followed by that of repose, when Tressilian, like others, retired 
to his sleeping apartment. 

He had not been in bed long, when the train of sad reveries, 
which supplied the place of rest in his disturbed mind, was 
suddenly interrupted by the jar of a door on its hinges, and a 
light was seen to glimmer in the apartment. ‘Tressilian, who 
was as brave as steel, sprang from his bed at this alarm, and 
had laid hand upon his sword, when he was prevented from 
drawing it, by a voice which said, ‘* Be not too rash with your 
rapier, Master Tressilian—It is I, your host, Giles Gosling.” 

At the same time, unshrouding the dark lantern, which had 
hitherto only emitted an indistinct glimmer, the goodly aspect 
and figure of the landlord of the Black Bear was visibly pre- 
sented to his astonished guest. 

“ What mummery is this, mine host?” said Tressilian ; 
“have you supped as jollily as last night, and so mistaken your 
chamber? or is midnight a time for masquerading it in your 
guest’s lodging?” 

“Master Tressilian,” replied mine host, “I ee my place 
and my time as well as e’er a merry landlord in England. But 
here has been my hang-dog kinsman watching you as close as 
ever cat watched a mouse; and here have you, on the other 
hand, quarreled and fought either with him or with some other 
person, and I fear that danger will come of it.” 

“Go to, thou art but a fool, man,” said Tressilian ; ‘ thy 
kinsman is beneath my resentment; and besides, why shouldst 
thou think I had quarreled with any one whomsoever ?” 

“Oh! sir,” replied the innkeeper, ‘‘ there was a red spot on 
thy very cheek-bone, which boded of a late brawl, as sure as 
the conjunction of Mars and Saturn threatens misfortune—and 
when you returned, the buckles of your girdle were brought 
forward, and your step was quick and hasty, and all things 
showed your hand and your hilt had been lately acquainted.” 

“Well, good mine host, if I have been obliged to draw my 
sword,” said Tressilian, ‘‘ why should such a circumstance fetch 
thee out of thy warm bed at this time of night? ‘Thou seest 
the mischief is all over.” 

“Under favor, that is what I doubt. Anthony Foster is a 
dangerous man, defended by strong court patronage, which hath 
borne him out in matters of very deep concernment. And 
then, my kinsman—why, I have told you what he is: and if 
these two old cronies have made up their old acquaintance, I 
would not, my worshipful guest, that it should be at thy cost 


p] 


$4 KENILWORTH. 


I promise you, Mike Lambourne has been making very partic 
ular inquiries at mine hostler, when and. which way you ride, 
Now, I would have you think, whether you may not have done 
or said something for which you may.be waylaid, and taken at 
disadvantage.” 

“Thou art an honest man, mine host,” said Tressilian, after 
a moment’s consideration, “‘and I will deal frankly with thee. 
If these men’s malice is directed against me—as I deny not but 
it may—it is because they are the agents of a more powerful 
villain than themselves.” 

‘“You mean Master Richard Varney, do you not ?” said the 
landlord; ‘he was at Cumnor Place yesterday, and came not 
thither so private but what he was espied by one who told me.” 

“*T mean the same, mine host.” | 

“ Then, for God’s sake, worshipful Master Tressilian,” said 
honest Gosling, “look well to yourself. This Varney is the 
protector and patron of Anthony Foster, who holds under him, 
and by his favor, some lease of yonder mansion and the park. 
Varney got a large grant of the lands of the Abbacy of Abing- 
don, and Cumnor Place amongst others, from his master, the 
Earl of Leicester. Men say he can do everything with him, 
though I hold the Earl too good a nobleman to employ him as 
some men talk of.—And then the Earl can do anything (that 
is, anything right or fitting) with the Queen, God bless her, so 
you see what an enemy you have made to yourself. % 

“Well—it is done, and I cannot help it,” answered Tres- 
silian. 

““Uds precious, but it must be helped in some manner,” said 
the host. ‘* Richard Varney—why, what between his influence 
with my lord, and his pretending to so many old and vexatious 
claims in right of the Abbot here, men fear almost to mention 
his name, much more to set themselves against his practices. 
You may judge by our discourses the last night. Men said 
their pleasure of Tony Foster, but not a word of Richard Var- 
ney, though all men judge him to be at the bottom of yonder 
mystery about the pretty wench. But perhaps you know more 
of that matter than I do, for women, though they wear not 
swords, are occasion for many a blade’s exchanging a sheath of 
neat’s leather for one of flesh and blood.” 

“‘T do indeed know more of that poor unfortunate lady thaa 
thou dost, my friendly host; and so bankrupt am I, at this 
moment, of friends and advice, that I will willingly make 4 
counselor of thee, and tell thee the whole history, the rathes 
that I have a favor to ask when my tale is ended.” 

“Good Master Tressilian,” said the landlord, “1 am but » 


KENILWORTH. 85 


poor innkeeper, little able to adjust or counsel such a guest as 
yourself. But as sure asI have risen decently above the world, 
by giving good measure and reasonable charges, I am an honest 
man; and as such, if I may not be able to assist you, I am at 
least not capable to abuse your confidence. Say away, there- 
fore, as confidently as if you spoke to your father; and thus far 
at least be certain, that my curiosity—for I will not deny that 
which belongs to my calling—is joined to a reasonable degree 
of discretion.” 

**T doubt it not, mine host,” answered Tressilian ; and while 
his auditor remained in anxious expectation, he meditated for 
an instant how he should commence his narrative. ‘ My tale,” 
he at length said, ‘‘to be quite intelligible, must begin at some 
distance back.—You have heard of the battle of Stoke, my 
good host, and perhaps of old Sir Roger Robsart, who, in that 
battle, valiantly took part with Henry VIT., the Queen’s grand- 
father, and routed the Earl of Lincoln, Lord Geraldin and his 
wild Irish, and the Flemings whom the Duchess of Burgundy 
had sent over, in the quarrel of Lambert Simnel!”’ 

“¢T remember both one and the other,” said Giles Gosling, 
“it is sung of a dozen times a-week on my ale-bench below.— 
Sir Roger Robsart of Devon—Oh, ay,—’tis him of whom min- 
strels sing to this hour,— 


‘He was the flower of Stoke’s red field, 
When Martin Swart on ground lay slain 3 
In raging rout he never reel’d, 
But like a rock did firm remain.’* 


Ay, and then there was Martin Swart J have heard my grand- 
father talk of, and of the jolly Almains whom he commanded, 
with their slashed doublets and quaint hose, all frounced with 
ribbons above the nether stocks. Here’sasong goes of Martin 
Swart, too, an I had but memory for it :— 


‘Martin Swart and his men, 
Saddle them, saddle them ; 

Martin Swart and his men, 
Saddle them well.’ ” 7 


* This verse, or something similar, occurs in a long ballad, or poem, on 
Flodden Field, "reprinted by the late Henry Weber (p. 65, "Edinb. 1808, 
8vo). 

+ This verse of an old song actually occurs in an old play (by Skelton), 
where the singer boasts— 


“ Courteously I can both counter and knack 
Of Martin Swart and all his merry men.” 


[See Weber’s notes, in the above vol., p. 182.] 


86 KENILWORTH. 


“True, good mine host—the day was long talked of ; but if 
you sing so loud, you will awake more listeners than I care to 
commit my confidence unto.” 

“T crave pardon, my worshipful guest,” said mine host, “I 
was oblivious. When an old song comes across us merry old 
knights of the spigot, it runs away with our discretion.” 

“Well, mine host, my grandfather, like some other Cornish 
men, kept a warm affection to the House of York, and espoused 
the quarrel of this Simnel, assuming the title of Karl of War- 
wick, as the county afterward, in great numbers, countenanced 
the cause of Perkin Warbeck, calling himself the Duke of York. 
My grandsire joined Simnel’s standard, and was taken fighting 
desperately at Stoke, where most of the leaders of that un- 
happy army were slain in their harness. The good knight to 
whom he rendered himself, Sir Roger Robsart, protected him 
from the immediate vengeance of the King, and dismissed him 
without ransom. But he was unable to guard him from other 
penalties of his rashness, being the heavy fines by which he 
was impoverished, according to Henry’s mode of weakening 
his enemies. The good knight did what he might to mitigate 
the distresses of my ancestor; and their friendship became so 
strict, that my father was bred up as the sworn brother and 
intimate of the present Sir Hugh Robsart, the only son of Sir 
Roger, and the heir of his honest and generous, and hospitable 
temper, though not equal to him in martial achievements.” 

“T have heard of good Sir Hugh Robsart,” interrupted the 
host, ‘“‘ many a time angi oft. His huntsman and sworn servant, 
Will Badger, hath spoken of him an hundred times in this very 
house—a jovial knight he is, and hath loved hospitality and 
open housekeeping more than the present fashion, which lays 
as much gold lace on the seams of a doublet as would feed a 
dozen of tall fellows with beef and ale for a twelvemonth, and 
let them have their evening at the ale-house once a-week, to do 
good to the publican.” 

“If you have seen Will Badger, mine host,” said Tressilian, 
“you have heard enough of Sir Hugh Robsart; and therefore 
I will but say, that the hospitality you boast of hath proved 
somewhat detrimental to the estate of his family, which is per- 
haps of the less consequence, as he has but one daughter to 
whom to bequeath it. And here begins my share in the tale. 
Upon my father’s death, now several years since, the good Sir 
Hugh would willingly have made me his constant companion. 
There was a time, however, at which I felt the kind knight’s 
excessive love for field-sports detained me from studies, by 
which I might have profited more; but I ceased to regret the 


KENILWORTH. By 


leisure which gratitude and hereditary friendship compelled me 
‘to bestow on these rural avocations. The exquisite beauty of 
Mistress Amy Robsart, as she grew up from childhood to woman, 
could not escape one whom circumstances obliged to be so con- 
stantly in her company—lI loved her, in short, my host, and her 
father saw it.” 

** And crossed your true loves, no doubt? ” said mine host ; 
“it is the way in all such cases; and I judge it must have 
been so in your instance, from the heavy sigh you uttered even 
now.” 

“The case was different, mine host. My suit was highly 
approved by the generous Sir Hugh Robsart—it was his 
daughter who was cold to my passion.” 

“‘ She was the more dangerous enemy of the two,” said the 
innkeeper. ‘I fear your suit proved a cold one.” 

*¢ She yielded me her esteem,” said Tressilian, ‘and seemed 
not unwilling that I should hope it might ripen into a warmer 
passion. There was a contract of future marriage executed 
betwixt us upon her father’s intercession ; but to comply with 
her anxious request, the execution was deferred for a twelve- 
month. During this period, Richard Varney appeared in the 
country, and, availing himself of some distant family connection 
with Sir Hugh Robsart, spent much of his time in his company, 
until, at length, he almost lived in the family.” 

“« That could bode no good to the place he honored with his 
residence,” said Gosling. 

“No, by the rood!” replied Tressilian. ‘ Misunderstand- 
ing and misery followed his presence, yet so strangely, that I 
am at this mement at a loss to trace the gradations of their 
encroachment upon a family, which had, till then, been so happy. 
For atime Amy Robsart received the attentions of this man 
Varney with the indifference attached to common courtesies ; 
then followed a period in which she seemed to regard him with 
dislike, and even with disgust; and then an extraordinary 
species of connection appeared to growup betwixt them. Varney 
dropped those airs of pretension and gallantry which had 
marked his former approaches ; and Amy, on the other hand, 
seemed to renounce the ill-disguised disgust with which she had 
regarded them. They seemed to have more of privacy and 
confidence together, than I fully liked ; and I suspected that 
they met in private, where there was less restraint than in our 
presence. Many circumstances, which I noticed but little at 
the time—for I deemed her heart as open as her angelic coun- 
tenance—have since arisen on my memory, to convince me of 
their private understanding. But I need not detail them—the 


gg KENILWORTH. 


fact speaks for itself. She vanished from her father’s house— 
Varney disappeared at the same time—and this very day I have _ 
seen her in the character of his paramour, living in the house 
of his sordid dependant Foster, and visited by him, muffled, 
and by a secret entrance.’ 

“ And this, then, is the cause of your quarrel? Methinks, 
you should have been sure that the fair lady either desired or 
deserved your interference.” 

‘“¢ Mine host,” answered Tressilian, “my father, such I must 
ever consider Sir Hugh Robsart, sits at home struggling with 
his grief, or, if so far recovered, vainly attempting to drown, in 
the practice of his field-sports, the recollection that he had once 


under circumstances the most pathetic. I could not brook the 
idea that he should live in misery, and Amy in guilt; and I 
endeavored to seek her out, with the hope of inducing her to 
return to her family. I have found her, and when I have 
either succeeded in my attempt, or have found it altogether 
unavailing, it is my purpose to embark for the Virginia voy- 
age.” 

” © Be not so rash, good sir,” replied Giles Gosling, “ and cast 
not yourself away because a woman—to be brief—zs a woman, 
and changes her lovers like her suit of ribbons, with no better 
reason than mere fantasy. And ere we probe this matter 
further, let me ask you what circumstances of suspicion directed 
you so truly to this lady’s residence, or rather to her place of 
concealment ? ” 

‘“‘ The last is the better chosen word, mine host,” answered 
Tressilian ; ‘ and touching your question, the knowledge that 
Varney held large grants of the demesnes formerly belonging to 
the monks of Abingdon, directed me to this neighborhood ; and 
your nephew’s visit to his old comrade Foster gave me the means 
of conviction on the subject.” 

“And what is now your purpose, worthy sir 2 S6SCUSS my 
freedom in asking the question so broadly.” 

“ I purpose, mine host,” said Tressilian, “to renew my visit 
to the place of her residence to-morrow, and to seek a more 
detailed communication with her than I have had to-day. She 
must indeed be widely changed from what she once was, if my 
words make no impression upon her.” 

“Under your favor Master Tressilian,” said the landlord, 
“you can follow no such course. The lady, if I understand 
you, has already rejected your interference in the matter.” 

“Tt is but too true,” said Tressilian ; “I cannot deny it.” 

“Then marry, by what right or interest do you process a 


| KENILWORTH. 89 


compulsory interference with her inclination, disgraceful as it 
may be to yourself and to her parents? Unless my judgment 
gulls me, those under whose protection she has thrown herself, 
would have small hesitation to reject your interference, even if 
it were that of a father or brother; but as a discarded lover, 
you expose yourself to be repelled with the strong hand, as well 
as with scorn. You can apply to no magistrate for aid or 
countenance; and you are hunting, therefore, a shadow in 
water, and will only (excuse my plainness) come by ducking 
and danger in attempting to catch it.” 

“TY will appeal to the Karl of Leicester,” said Tressilian, 
“against the infamy of his favorite.—He courts the severe and 
strict sect of puritans—He dare not, for the sake of his own 
character, refuse my appeal, even although he were destitute of 
the principles of honor and nobleness, with which fame invests 
him. Or I will appeal to the Queen herself.” 

“Should Leicester,” said the landlord, ‘‘ be disposed to 
protect his dependant (as indeed he is said to be very confiden- 
tia] with Varney), the appeal to the Queen may bring them 
both to reason. Her Majesty is strict in such matters, and (if 
it be not treason to speak it) will rather, it is said, pardon a 
dozen courtiers for falling in love with herself than one for 
giving preference to another woman. Coragio, then, my brave 
guest! for if thou layest a petition from Sir Hugh at the foot 
of the throne, bucklered by the story of thine own wrongs, the 
favorite earl dared as soon leap into the Thames at the fullest 
and deepest, as offer to protect Varney in a cause of this na- 
ture. But to do this with any chance of success, you must go 
formally to work; and, without staying here to tilt with the 
master of horse to a privy councilor, and expose yourself to 
the dagger of his cameradoes, you should hie you to Devon- 
shire, get a petition drawn up for Sir Hugh Robsart, and make 
as many friends as you can to forward your interest at court.” 

“ You have spoken well, mine host,” said Tressilian. “And 
I will profit by your advice, and leave you to-morrow early.” 

‘‘ Nay, leave me to-night, sir, before to-morrow comes,” said 
the landlord. “I never prayed for a guest’s arrival more €a- 
gerly than I do to have you safely gone. My kinsman’s des- 
tiny is most like to be hanged for something, but I would not 
that the cause were the murder of an honored guest of mine. 
‘ Better ride safe in the dark,’ says the proverb, ‘ than in day- 
light with a cut-throat at your elbow.’ Come, sir, I move you 
for your own safety. Your horse and all is ready, and here 1s 
your score.” | 

“It is somewhat under a noble,” said Tressilian, giving one 


go KENILWORTH. 


to the host ; “give the balance to pretty Cicely, your daughter, 
and the servants of the house.” 

“They shall taste of your bounty, sir,” said Gosling, “ and 
you should taste of my daughter’s lips in grateful acknowledg- 
ment, but at this hour she cannot grace the porch to greet your 
departure.” 

“Do not trust your daughter too far with your guests, my 
good landlord,” said Tressilan. 

“Oh, sir, we will keep measure ; but I wonder not that you 
are jealous of them all.—May I crave to know with what as- 
pect the fair lady at the Place yesterday received you ? ” 

“T own,” said Tressilian, “it was angry as well as confused, 
and affords me little hope that she is yet awakened from her 
unhappy delusion.” 

“In that case, sir, I see not why you should play the cham- 
pion of a wench, that will none of you, and incur the resent- 
ment of a favorite’s favorite, as dangerous a monster as ever a 
knight adventurer encountered in the old story books.” 

“You do me wrong in the supposition, mine host—gross 
wrong,” said Tressilian; “I do not desire that Amy should 
ever turn thought upon me more. Letme but see her restored 
to her father, and all I have to do in Europe—perhaps in the 
world—is over and ended.” 

_“ A wiser resolution were to drink a cup of sack, and forget 
her,” said the landlord. “ But tive-and-twenty and fifty look 
on those matters with different eyes, especially when one case 
of peepers is set in the skull of a young gallant, and the other 
in that of an old publican. I pity you, Master Tressilian, but 
I see not how I can aid you in the matter.” 

“Only thus far, mine host,” replied Tressillan24 Keep a 
watch on the motions of those at the Place, which thou canst 
easily learn without suspicion, as all men’s news fly to the ale- 
bench ; and be pleased to communicate the tidings in writing 
to such person, and to no other, who shall bring you this ring 
as a special token—look at it—it is of value, and I will freely 
bestow it on you.” 

“Nay, sir,” said the landlord, “ I desire no recompense— 
but it seems an unadvised course in me, being in a public line, 
to connect myself in a matter of this dark and perilous nature, 
I have no interest in it.” 

“You and every father in the land who would have his 
daughter released from the snares of shame, and sin, and misery, 
have an interest deeper than aught concerning earth only could 
create.” 

“Well, sir,” said the host, “these are brave words; and I 


KENILWORTH. gt 


do pity from my soul the frank-hearted old gentleman who has 
minished his estate in good housekeeping for the honor of his 
country, and now has his daughter, who should be the stay of 
his age, and so forth, whisked up by such a kite as this Varney. 
And though your part in the matter 1s somewhat of the wildest, 
yet I will e’en be a madcap for company, and help you in your 
honest attempt to get back the good man’s child, so far as be- 
ing your faithfulintelligencercan serve. And as I shall be true 
to you, I pray you to be trusty to me, and keep my secret; for 
it were bad for the custom of the Black Bear should it be said 
the bear-warder interfered in such matters. Varney has inter- 
est enough with the justices to dismount my noble emblem from 
the post on which he swings so gallantly, to call in my license, 
and ruin me from garret to cellar.” 

“Do not doubt my secrecy, mine host,” said Tressilian ; “I 
will retain, besides, the deepest sense of thy service, and of the 
risk thou dost run—remember the ring is my sure token.—And 
now, farewell—for it was thy wise advice that I should tarry 
here as short a time as may be.” 

“Follow me, then, Sir Guest,” said the landlord, “ and 
tread as gently as if eggs were under your foot instead of 
deal boards.—No one must know when or how you departed.” 

By the aid of this dark lantern he conducted Tressilian, as 
soon as he had made himself ready for his journey through a 
long intricacy of passages, which opened to an outer court, and 
from thence to a remote stable, where he had already placed 
his guest’s horse. He then aided him to fasten on the saddle 
the small portmantle which contained his necessaries, opened a 
postern-door, and with a hearty shake of the hand, and a reiter- 
ation of his promise to attend to what went on at Cumnor Place, 
he dismissed his guest to his solitary journey. 


CHAPTER NINTH. 


Far in the lane a lonely hut he found, 

No tenant ventured on the unwholesome ground; 

Here smokes his forge, he bares his sinewy arm, 

And early strokes the sounding anvil warm; 

Around his shop the steely sparkles flew, 

As for the steed he shaped the beriding shoe, 
Gay’s TRIVIA. 


As it was deemed proper by the traveler himself as well as 
by Giles Gosling, that Tressilian should avoid being seen in the 
neighborhood 9f Cumnor by those whom accident might make 


92 KENILWORTH. 


early risers, the landlord had given him a route, consisting of 
various byways and lanes, which he was to follow in succession, 
and which, all the turns and short-cuts duly observed, was to 
conduct him tothe public road to Marlborough. 

But, like counsel of every other kind, this species of direction 
is much more easily given than followed; and what betwixt 
the intricacy of the way, the darkness of the night, Tressilian’s 
ignorance of the country, and the sad and perplexing thoughts 
with which he had-to contend, his journey proceeded so slowly, 
that morning found him only in the vale of Whitehorse, memo- 
rable for the defeat of the Danes informer days, with his horse 
deprived of a forefoot shoe, an accident which threatened to put 
a stop to his journey, by laming the animal. The residenceofa 
smith was his first object of inquiry, in which he received little 
satisfaction from the dulness or sullenness of one or two peas- 
ants, early bound for their labor, who gave brief and indifferent 
answers to his questions on the subject. Anxious, at length, 
that the partner of his journey should suffer as little as possible 
from the unfortunate accident, Tressilian dismounted, and ied 
his horse in the direction of a little hamlet, where he hoped 
either to find or hear tidings of such an artificer as he now 
wanted, Through a deep and muddy lane, he at length waded 
on to the place, which proved only an assemblage of five or six 
miserable huts, about the doors of which, one or two persons, 
whose appearance seemed as rude as that of their dwellings, 
were beginning the toils of the day. One cottage, however, 
seemed of rather superior aspect, and the old dame, who was 
sweeping her threshold, appeared something less rude than her 
neighbors. ‘To her Tressilian addressed the oft-repeated. ques- 
tion, whether there was a smith in this neighborhood, or any 
place where he couldrefresh his horse? The dame looked him 
in the face with a peculiar expression, as she replied, ‘‘ Smith ! 
ay, truly is there a smith—what wouldst ha’ w’ un mon?” 

“To shoe my horse, good dame,” answered Tressilian ; ‘* you 
may see that he has thrown a forefoot shoe.” 

“Master Holiday!” exclaimed the dame, without returning 
any direct answer—‘ Master Herasmus Holiday, come and 
speak to mon, and please you.” 

“ Favele linguis,”’ answered a voice from within; “‘ I cannot 
now come forth, Gammer Sludge, being in the very sweetest 
bit of my morning studies.” 

‘Nay, but, good now, Master Holiday, come ye out, ye— 
Here’s a mon would to Wayland Smith, and I care not to show 
him way to devil—his horse hath cast shoe.” 

Oud mihi cum caballo?” replied the man of learning from 


KENILWORTH. 93 


within; “I think there is but one wise man in the hundred, 
and they cannot shoe a horse without him!” 

And forth came the honest pedagogue, for such his dress be- 
spoke him. A long, lean, shambling, stooping figure was sur- 
mounted by a head thatched with lank black hair somewhat in- 
clining to gray. His features had the cast of habitual authority, 
which I suppose Dionysius carried with him from the throne to 
the schoolmaster’s pulpit, and bequeathed asa legacy to all of 
the same profession. A black buckram cassock was gathered 
at his middle with a belt, at which hung, instead of knife or 
weapon, a goodly leathern pen-and-ink-case. His ferula was 
stuck on the other side, like Harlequin’s wooden sword; and 
he carried in his hand the tattered volume which he had been 
busily perusing. 

On seeing a person of Tressilian’s appearance, which he was 
better: able to estimate than the country folks had been, the 
schoolmaster unbonneted, and accosted him with “ Sa/ve, domaine, 
Lntelligisne linguam Latinam?”’ 

Tressilian mustered his learning to reply, ‘ Zimgue Latine 
haud penitus ignarus, venia tua, domine eruditissime, vernaculam 
ibentius loguor.” 

The Latin reply had upon the schoolmaster the effect which 
the mason’s sign is said to produce on the brethren of the 
trowel. He was at once interested in the learned traveler, list- 
ened with gravity to his story of a tired horse and a lost, shoe, 
and then replied with solemnity, “It may appear a simple thing, 
most worshipful, to reply to you that there dwells, within a brief 
mile of these tugurza, the best faber ferrarius, the most accom- 
plished blacksmith that ever nailed iron upon horse. Now 
were I to say so, I warrant me you would think yourself compos 
vott, or, as the vulgar have it, a made man.” 

‘“T should at least,’ said Tressilian, ‘‘ have a direct answer 
to a plain question, which seems difficult to be obtained in this 
country.” 

“It is a mere sending of a sinful soul to the evil un,” said 
the old woman, “the sending a living creature to Wayland 
Smith.” 

‘Peace, Gammer Sludge!” said the pedagogue; “pauca 
verba, Gammer Sludge ; look to the furmity, Gammer Sludge; 
curetur jentaculum, Gammer Sludge; this gentleman is none 
of thy gossips.” Then turning to Tressilian, he resumed: his 
lofty tone, “And so, most worshipful, you would really think 
yourself felix bis tergue, should I point out to you the: dwelling 
of this same smith ?”’ ) 9 

s Sir,” replied Tressilian, “I should in that case have: all 


94 KENILWORTA. 


that I want at present—a horse fit to carry me forward—out 
of hearing of your learning.” ‘The last words he muttered to 
himself. 

“ O ceca mens mortalium!” said the learned man; “ well 
was it sung by Junius Juvenalis, ‘zwminibus vota exaudita 
malignis |?” 

“Learned Magister,” said Tressilian, “your erudition so 
greatly exceeds my poor intellectual capacity that you must 
excuse my seeking elsewhere for information which I can better 
understand.” 

“There again now,” replied the pedagogue, “ how fondly 
you fly from him that would instruct you! ‘Truly, said Quin- 
tilian ” 

“T pray, sir, let Quintilian be for the present, and answet, 
in a word and in English, if your learning can condescend so far, 
whether there is any place here where I can have opportunity 
to refresh my horse, until I can have him shod?” 

‘Thus much courtesy, sir,” said the schoolmaster, “I can 
readily render you, that although there is in this poor hamlet 
(nostra paupera regna) no regular hospitium, as my namesake 
Erasmus calleth it, yet, forasmuch as you are somewhat embued, 
or at least tinged as it were, with good letters, I will use my 
interest with the good woman of the house to accommodate 
you with a platter of furmity—an wholesome food, for which 
I have found no Latin phrase—your horse shall have a share 
of the cow-house, with a bottle of sweet hay, in which the good 
woman Sludge so much abounds, that it may be said of her cow, 
SJenum habet in cornu ; and if it please you to bestow on me 
the pleasure of your company, the banquet shall cost you é 
semissem quidem, so much is Gammer Sludge bound to me for 
the pains I have bestowed on the top and bottom of her hopeful 
heir Dickie, whom I have painfully made to travel through the 
accidence.”’ 

“Now, God yield ye for it, Mr. Herasmus,” said the good 
Gammer, “ and grant that little Dickie may be the better for 
his accident !—and for the rest, if the gentleman list to stay, 
breakfast shall be on the board in the wringing of a dishclout ; 
and for horse-meat, and man’s meat, I bear no such base mind 
as to ask a penny.” 

Considering the state of his horse, Tressilian, upon the 
whole, saw no better course than to accept the invitation thus 
learnedly made and hospitably confirmed, and take chance 
that when the good pedagogue had exhausted every topic of 
conversation, he might possibly condescend to tell him where 
he could find the smith they spoke of. He entered the hut 


KENILWORTH. 9% 


accordingly, and sat down with the learned Magister Erasmus 
Holiday, partook of his furmity, and listened to his learned 
account of himself for a good half-hour, ere he could get him 
to talk upon any other topic. The reader will readily excuse 
our accompanying this man of learning into all-the details with 
which he favored Tressilian, of which the following sketch may 
suffice. 

He was born at Hogsnorton, where, according to popular 
saying, the pigs play upon the organ; a proverb which he 
interpreted allegorically, as having reference to the herd of 
Epicurus, of which litter Horace confessed himself a porker. 
His name of Erasmus, he derived partly from his father having 
been the son of a renowned washerwoman, who had held that 
great scholar in clean linen all the while he was at Oxford ; a 
task of some difficulty, as he was only possessed of two shirts, 
““the one,” as she expressed herself, “‘ to wash the other.” The 
vestiges of one of these camzcze as Master Holiday boasted, 
were still in his possesion, having fortunately been detained by 
his grandmother to cover the balance of her bill. But he 
thought there was a still higher and overruling cause for his 
having had the name of Erasmus conferred on him, namely, 
the secret presentiment of his mother’s mind, that, in the babe 
to be christened, was a hidden genius, which should one day 
lead him to rival the fame of the great scholar of Amsterdam. 
The schoolmaster’s surname led him as far into dissertation as 
his Christian appellative. He was inclined to think that he 
bore the name of Holiday guasz lucus a non lucendo, because 
he gave such few holidays to his school. ‘ Hence,” said he, 
“the schoolmaster is termed classically, Lud: Magister, be- 
cause he deprives the boys of their play.” And yet, on the 
other hand, he thought it might bear a very different interpreta- 
tion, and refer to: his own exquisite art in arranging pageants, 
morris-dances, May-day festivities, and such like holiday de- 
lights, for which he assured Tressilian he had positively the 
purest and the most inventive brain in England ; insomuch, 
that his cunning in framing such pleasures had made him known 
to‘many honorable persons, both in country and in court, and 
especially to the noble Earl of Leicester—‘ And although he 
may now seem to forget me,” he said, “in the multitude of 
state affairs, yet I am well assured, that had he some pretty 
pastime to array for entertainment of the Queen’s Grace, horse 
and man would be seeking the humble cottage of Erasmus 
Holiday. Parvo contentus, in the meanwhile, I hear my pupils 
parse, and construe, worshipful sir, and. drive away. my time 
With the aid of the Muses. And I have at all times, when in 


96 KENILWORTH, 


correspondence with foreign scholars, subscribed myself Eras 
mus ab Die Fausto, and have enjoyed the distinction due to 
the learned under that title ; witness the erudite Diedrichus 
Buckerschockius, who dedicated to me under that title his 
treatise on the letter Zau. In fine, sir, I have been a happy 
and distinguished man.” 

“‘ Long may it be so, sir!” said the traveler; “ but permit 
me to.ask, in your own learned phrase, Quzd hoc ad Lphych 
doves—what has all this to do with the shoeing of my poor 
nag ?.”’ 

‘« Festina lente,” said the man of learning, “ we will presently 
come to that point. You must know that some two or three 
years past, there came to these parts one who called himself 
Doctor Doboobie, although it may be he never wrote even 
Magister artium, save in right of his hungry belly. Or it may 
be, that if he had any degrees, they were of the devil’s giving, 
for he was what the vulgar call a white witch—a cunning 
man, and such like. Now, good sir, I perceive you are im- 
patient ; but if a man tell not his tale his own way, how have 
you warrant to think that he can tell it in yours ?” 

“Well, then, learned sir, take your way,” answered Tres- 
silian; “only let us travel at a sharper pace, for my time is 
somewhat of the shortest.” | 

“Well, sir,” resumed Erasmus Holiday, with the most pro- 
voking perseverance, “I will not say that this same Demetrius, 
for so he wrote himself when in foreign parts, was an actual 
conjuror, but certain it is, that he professed to be a brother of 
the mystical Order of the Rosy Cross, a disciple of Gebber (ex- 
nomine cujus venit verbum vernaculum, gibberish). We cured 
wounds by salving the weapon instead of the sore—told for- 
tunes by palmistry—discovered stolen goods by the sieve and 
shears-—-gathered the right maddow and the male fern seed, 
through use of which men walk invisible—pretended some 
advances toward the panacea, or universal elixir, and affected 
to convert good lead into sorry silver.” 

“In other words,” said Tressilian, ‘“‘ he was a quacksalver . 
and common cheat; but what has all this to do with my nag, 
and the shoe which he has lost ?” 

“With your worshipful patience,” replied the diffusive man 
of letters, “‘you shall understand that presently,—patienta, 
then, right worshipful, which word, according to our Marcus 
Tullius, is) ‘dificilium rerum diurna perpessio. This same 
Demetrius Doboobie, after dealing with the country, as I have 
told you,»began to acquire fame cxfer magnates, among: the 
prime'men of the land, and there is likelihood he might) have 


{?? 


KENILWORTH. 97 


aspired to great matters, had not, according to vulgar fame, 
(for I aver not the thing as according with my certain knowl- 
edge), the devil claimed his right, one dark night, and flown 
off with Demetrius, who was never seen or heard of afterward. 
Now here comes the meduéla, the very marrow of my tale. 
This Doctor Doboobie had a servant, a poor snake, whom 
he employed in trimming his furnace, regulating it by just 
measure—compounding his drugs—tracing his circles—cajol- 
ing his patients, e¢ sce de ceteris—Well, right worshipful, 
the Doctor being removed thus strangely, and in a way which 
struck the whole country with terror, this poor Zany thinks to 
himself, in the words of Maro, ‘ Uno avulso non deficit alter ;? 
and, even as a tradesman’s apprentice sets himself up in his 
master’s shop when he is dead, or hath retired from business, 
so doth this Wayland assume the dangerous trade of his de- 
funct master. But although, most worshipful sir, the world is 
ever prone to listen to the pretensions of such unworthy men, 
who are, indeed, mere saltim bangui and charlatani, though 
usurping the style and skill of doctors of medicine, yet the 
pretensions of this poor Zany, this Wayland, were too gross to 
pass on them, nor was there a mere rustic, a villager, who was 
not ready to accost him in the sense of Persius, though in their 
own rugged words,— 


‘Diluis helleborum, certo compescere puncto 
Nescius examen? vetat hoc natura medendi;’ 


which I have thus rendered in a poor paraphrase of mine own,— 


Wilt thou mix hellebore, who doth not know 
How many grains should to the mixture go? 
The art of medicine this forbids, I trow. 


Moreover, the evil reputation of the master, and his strange 
and doubtful end, or, at least, sudden disappearance, prevented 
any, excepting the most desperate of men, to seek any advice 
or opinion from the servant; wherefore the poor vermin was 
likely at first to swarf for very hunger. But the devil that 
serves him, since the death of Demetrius or Doboobie, put him 
on a fresh device. ‘This knave, whether from the inspiration of 
the devil, or from early education, shoes horses better than e’er 
a man betwixt us and Iceland; and so he gives up his practice 
on the bipeds, the two-legged and unfledged species called man- 
kind, and betakes him entirely to shoeing of horses.” 

*¢ Indeed ! and where does he lodge all this time ? ” said Tres- 
silian, ‘“ And does he shoe horses well ?—show me his dwell- 
ing presently,” 


98 KENILWORTH. 


The interruption pleased not the J/agister, who exclaimed, 
“0 ceca mens mortalium! though, by the way, I used that 
‘quotation before. But I would the classics could afford me any 
sentiment of power to stop those who are so willing to rush 
upon their own destruction. Hear but, I pray you, the con- 
ditions of this man,” said he, in continuation, “‘ere you are so 
willing to place yourself within his danger ’””—— 

“‘ A’ takes no money for a’s work,” said the dame, who 
stood by, enraptured as it were with the fine words and learned 
apophthegms which glided so fluently from her erudite inmate, 
Master Holiday. But this interruption pleased not the Magis- 
ter, more than that of the traveler. 

‘“‘ Peace,” said he, ‘‘Gammer Sludge; know your place, if 
it be your will. Suffamina, Gammer Sludge, and allow me to 
expound this matter to our worshipful guest.—Sir,” said he, 
again addressing Tressilian, “this old woman speaks true, 
though in her own rude style ; for certainly this faber ferrarius, 
or blacksmith, takes money of no one.” 

“‘And that is a sure sign he deals with Satan,” said Dame 
Sludge; “since no good Christian would ever refuse the wages 
of his labor.” . 

“The old woman hath touched it again,” said the peda- 
gogue ; “vem acu teligit—she hath picked it with her needle’s 
point.—This Wayland takes no money, indeed, nor doth he 
show himself to any one.” 

“And can this madman, for such I hold him,” said the 
traveler, ‘‘ know aught like good skill of his trade?” 

“Oh, sir, in that let us give the devil his due—Mulciber 
himself, with all his Cyclops, could hardly amend him. But 
assuredly there is little wisdom in taking counsel or receiving 
aid from one, who is but too plainly in league with the author 
of evil.” 

‘* must take my chance of that, good Master Holiday,” 
said Tressilian, rising ; ‘‘and, as my horse must now have eaten 
his provender, I must needs thank you for your good cheer, 
- and pray you to show me this man’s residence, that I may have 
the means of proceeding on my journey.” 

“‘ Ay, ay, do ye show him, Master Herasmus,” said the old 
dame, who was, perhaps, desirous to get her house freed of her 
guest ; ‘ a’ must needs go when the devil drives.” 

“ Do manus,” said the Magister, “I submit—taking the 
world to witness, that I have possessed this honorable gentle- 
man with the full injustice which he has done and shall do te 
his own soul, if he becomes thus a trinketer with Satan, 


KENILWORTH, 99 


Neither will I go forth with our guest myself, but rather send 
my pupil.—Rcarde! adsis, nebulo,” 

“Under your favor, not so,’’ answered the old woman; 
“you may peril your own soul, if you list, but my son shall 
budge on no such errand; and I wonder at you, Dominie 
Doctor, to propose such a piece of service for little Dickie.” 

““ Nay, my good Gammer Sludge,” answered the preceptor, 
“ Ricardus shall go but to the top of the hill, and indicate with 
his digit to the stranger the dwelling of Wayland Smith.  Be- 
lieve not that any evil can come to him, he having read this 
morning, fasting, a chapter of the Septuagint, and, moreover, 
having had his lesson in the Greek Testament.” 

“Ay,” said his mother, “and I have sewn_a sprig of 
witch’s elm in the neck of un’s doublet, ever since that foul 
thief has begun his practices on man and beast in these 
parts.” 

“And as he goes oft (as I hugely suspect) toward this con- 
juror for his own pastime, he may for once go thither, or near 
it, to pleasure us, and to assist this stranger.—Zrgo, heus 
Ricarde! adsis, queso, mi didascule.” 

The pupil, thus affectionately invoked, at length came 
stumbling into the room ; a queer, shambling, ill-made urchin, 
who, by his stunted growth, seemed about twelve or thirteen 
years old, though he was probably, in reality, a year or two 
older, with a carroty pate in huge disorder, a freckled sunburnt 
visage, with a snub nose, a long chin and two peery gray eyes, 
which had a droll obliquity of vision, approaching to a squint, 
though perhaps not a decided one. It was impossible to look 
at the little man without some disposition to laugh, especially 
when Gammer Sludge, seizing upon and kissing him, in spite 
of his struggling and kicking in reply to her caresses, termed 
him her own precious pearl of beauty. 

“ Ricarde,” said the preceptor, “ you must forthwith (which 
is profecto) set forth so far as the top of the hill, and show this 
man of worship Wayland Smith’s workshop.” 

““A proper errand of a morning,” said the boy, in better 
language than Tressilian expected ; “and who knows but the 
devil may fly away with me before I come back ?” 

“Ay, marry may un,” said Dame Sludge, “and you might 
have thought twice, Master Dominie, ere you sent my dainty 
darling on arrow such errand. It is not for such doings I feed 
your belly and clothe your back, I warrant you!” 

“ Pshaw—zuge, good Gammer Sludge,” answered the pre- 
ceptor; “I ersure you that Satan, if there be Satan in the case, 
shall not touch a thread of his garment; for Dickie can say his 


goo KENILWORTH. 


pater with the best, and may defy the foul fiend—Aumenides, 
Stygiumague nefas.” 

* Ay, and I, as I said before, have sewed a sprig of the 
mountain-ash into his collar,” said the good woman, ‘‘ which will 
avail more than your clerkship, I wus; but for all that, it is ill 
to seek the devil or his mates either.” 

“* My good boy,” said Tressilian, who saw, from a grotesque 
sneer on Dickie’s face, that he was more likely to act upon his 
own bottom than by the instructions of his elders, ‘‘I will give 
thee a silver groat, my pretty fellow, if you will but guide me to 
this man’s forge.” 

The boy gave him a knowing side look, which seemed to 
promise acquiescence, while at the same time he exclaimed, “ I 
be your guide to Wayland Smith’s! Why, man, did I not say 
that the devil might fly off with me, just as the kite there” 
(looking to the window) ‘is flying off with one of grandam’s 
chicks.” 

“The kite ! the kite !”’ exclaimed the old woman in return, 
and forgetting all other matters in her alarm, hastened to 
the rescue of her chicken as fast as her old legs could carry 
her. 

“‘ Now for it,” said the urchin to Tressilian ; “snatch your 
beaver, get out your horse, and have at the silver groat you 
spoke of.” 

“Nay, but tarry, tarry,” said the preceptor, ‘* Suffamina, 
Ricarde.” 

“Tarry yourself,” said Dickie, “and think what answer you 
are to make to granny for sending me post to the devil.” 

The teacher, aware of the responsibility he was incurring, 
bustled up in great haste to lay hold of the urchin, and to 
prevent. his departure ; but Dickie slipped through his fingers, 
bolted from the cottage, and sped him to the top of a neigh- 
boring rising ground; while the preceptor, despairing, by well- 
taught experience, of recovering his pupil by speed of foot, had 
recourse to the most honeyed epithets the Latin vocabulary 
affords, to persuade his return. But to mz anime, corculum 
meum, and all such classical endearments, the truant turned a 
deaf ear, and kept frisking on the top of the rising ground like 
a goblin by moonlight, making signs to his new acquaintance, 
Tresilian, to follow him, 

The traveler lost no time in getting out his horse, and de- 
parted to join his elvish guide, after half forcing on the poor 
deserted teacher a recompense for the entertainment he had 
received, which partly allayed the terror he had for facing the 
return of the old lady of the mansion. Apparently this took 


KENILWORTH. ror 


place soon afterward ; for ere Tressilian and his guide had pro- 
ceeded far on their journey, they heard the screams of a cracked 
female voice, intermingled with the classical objurgations of 
Master Erasmus Holiday. But Dickie Sludge, equally deaf to 
the voice of maternal tenderness and of magisterial authority, 
skipped on unconsciously before Tressilian, only observing, 
that if ‘‘ they cried themselves hoarse, they might go lick the 
honey-pot, for he had eaten up all the honey-comb himself on 
yesterday even.” 


CHAPTER TENTH. 


There entering in, they found the goodman selfe 
Full busylie unto his work ybent, 
Who was to weet a wretched wearish elf, 
With hollow eyes and rawbone cheeks forspent, 
As if he had been long in prison pent. 
THE FAERY QUEENE, 


** ARE we far from the dwelling of this smith, my pretty 
lad ?” said Tressilian to his young guide. 

“ How is it you call me?” said the boy, looking askew at 
him with his sharp gray eyes. 

“IT call you my pretty lad—is there any offence in that, my 
boy ?” 

f No—but were you with my grandam and Dominie Holiday, 

you might sing chorus to the old song of 


‘We three 


Tom-fools be.’ ” 


** And why so, my little man ?” said Tressilian. 

“‘ Because,” answered the ugly urchin, “you are the only 
three ever called me pretty lad—Now my grandam does it be- 
cause she is parcel blind by age, and whole blind by kindred 
—~and my master, the. poor Dominie, does it to curry favor, 
and have the fullest platter of furmity, and the warmest seat 
by the fire. But what you call me pretty lad for, you know 
best yourself.” 

“Thou art a sharp wag at least, if not a pretty one. But 
what do thy playfellows call thee ?”’ 

“¢ Hobgoblin,” answered the boy, readily; ‘ but for all that, 
I would rather have my own ugly viznomy than any of their 


102 KENILWORTH. 


jolterheads, that have no more brains in them than a brick- 
bat.” 

“Then you fear not this smith, whom you are going to 
see ?”? 

“Me fear him!” answered the boy; “if he were the devil 
folk think him, I would not fear him; but though there is 
something queer about him, he’s no more a devil than you are, 
and that’s what I would not tell to every one.” 

“And why do you tell it to me, then, my boy?” said 
Tressilian. 

‘“‘ Because you are another guess gentleman than those we 
see here every day,” replied Dickie; “and though I am as 
ugly as sin, I would not have you think me an ass, especially 
as I may have a boon to ask of you one day.” 

‘‘ And what is that, my lad, whom I must not call pretty?” 
replied Tressilian. 

“Oh, if I were to ask it just now,” said the boy, “ you would 
deny it me—but I will wait till we meet at court.” 

“At court, Richard ? are you bound for court ?”’ said Tres- 
silian. 

“Ay, ay, that’s just like the rest of them,” replied the boy; 
“T warrant me you think, what should such an ill-favored, 
scrambling urchin do at court? But let Richard Sludge alone ; 
I have not been cock of the roost here for nothing. I will 
make sharp wit mend foul feature.” 

“ But what will your grandam say, and your tutor, Dominie 
Holiday?” 

“ K’en what they like,” replied Dickie; “the one has her 
chickens to reckon, and the other has his boys to whip. I 
would have given them the candle to hold long since, and 
shown this trumpery hamlet a fair pair of heels, but the 
Dominie promises I should go with him to bear share in the 
next pageant he is to set forth, and they say there are to be 
great revels shortly.” 

‘“‘ And whereabout are they to be held, my little friend ?” 
said Tressilian. 

“Oh, at some castle far in the north,” answered his guide— 
‘a world’s breadth from Berkshire. But our old Dominie 
holds that they cannot go forward without him; and.it may be 
he is right, for he has put in order many a fair pageant. He 
is not half the fool you would take him for, when he gets to 
work he understands ; and so he can spout verses like a play- 
actor, when, God wot, if you set him to set a goose’s egg, he 
would be drubbed by the gander.” 

“And you are to play a part in his next show?” said Tres- 


KENILWORTH. 103 


silian, somewhat interested by the boy’s boldness of conversa: 
tion, and shrewd estimate of character. 

“In faith,” said Richard Sludge, in answer, “he hath se 
promised me; and if he break his word, it will be the worse 
for him; for let me take the bit between my teeth, and turn 
my head down hill, and I will shake him off with a fall that 
may harm his bones—And I should not like much to hurt him 
neither,” said he, “for the tiresome old fool has painfully 
labored to teach me all he could.—But enough of that—here 
are we at Wayland Smith’s forge-door.” 

“You jest, my little friend,” said Tressilian; “here is 
nothing but a bare moor, and that ring of stones, with a great 
one in the midst, like a Cornish barrow.” 

*“* Ay, and that great flat stone in the midst, which lies across 
the top of these uprights,” said the boy, ‘‘is Wayland Smith’s 
counter, that you must tell down your money upon.” 

“What do you mean by such folly?” said the traveler, 
beginning to be angry with the boy, and vexed with himself 
for having trusted such a harebrained guide. 

“Why,” said Dickie, with a grin, “you must tie your horse 
to that upright stone that has the ring in’t, and then you must 
whistle three times, and lay me down your silver groat on that 
other flat stone, walk out of the circle, sit down on the west 
side of that little thicket of bushes, and take heed you look 
neither to right nor to left for ten minutes, or so long as you 
shall hear the hammer clink, and whenever it ceases, say ycur 
prayers for the space you could tell a hundred,—or count over 
a hundred, which will do as well,—and then come into the 
circle ; you will find your money gone and your horse shod.” 

“My money gone toa certainty!” said Tressilian ; “ but as 
for the rest—Hark ye, my lad, I am not your schoolmaster ; 
but if you play off your waggery on me, I will take a part of 
his task off his hands, and punish you to purpose.” 

“ Ay, when you catch me!” said the boy ; and presently 
took to his heels across the heath, with a velocity which baffled 
every attempt of Tressilian to overtake him, loaded as he was 
with his heavy boots. Nor was it the least provoking part of 
the urchin’s conduct, that he did not exert his utmost speed, 
like one who finds himself in danger, or who is frightened, but 
preserved just such a rate as to encourage Tressilian to con- 
tinue the chase, and then darted away from him with the swift- 
ness of the wind, when his pursuer supposed he had nearly run 
him down, doubling, at the same time, and winding, so as al- 
ways to keep near the place from which he started.” 

This lasted until Tressilian, from very weariness, stood stil] 


104 KENILWORTH. 


and was about to abandon the pursuit with a hearty curse on 
the ill-favored urchin, who had engaged him in an exercise so 
ridiculous. But the boy, w who had, as formerly, planted himself 
on the top of a hillock close in front, began to clap his long 
thin hands, point with his skinny fingers, and twist his wild 
and ugly features into such an extravagant expression of 
laughter and derision, that Tressilian began half to doubt 
whether he had not in view an actual hobgoblin. 

Provoked extremely, yet at the same time feeling an irre- 
sistible desire to laugh, so very odd were the boy’s grimaces 
and gesticulations, the Cornish man returned to his horse, and 
mounted him with the purpose of pursuing Dickie at more 
advantage. 

The boy no sooner saw him mount his horse, than he hollo’d 
out to him, that rather than he should spoil his white-footed 

nag, he could come to him, on condition he: would keep his 
fingers to himself. 

‘“‘T will make no condition with thee, thou naughty varlet!” 

said Tressilian; ‘I will have thee at my mercy in a moment.” 

“ Aha, Master Traveler,” said the boy, “there is a marsh 
hard by would swallow all the horses of the Queen’s Guard— 
I will into it, and see where woe will go then.—You shall! hear 
the bittern bump, and the wild-drake quack, ere you get hold 
of me without my consent, I promise you.’ 

Tressilian looked out, and, from the appearance of the ground 
behind the hillock, believed it might be as the boy said, and 
accordingly determined to strike up a peace with so light. 
footed and ready-witted an enemy—‘ Come down,” he said, 
“thou mischievous brat!—leave thy mopping and mowing 
and come hither; I will do thee no harm, as I am a gentle- 
man.’ 

The boy answered his invitation with the utmost confidence, 
and danced down from his stance with a galliard sort of step, 
keeping his eye at the same time fixed on Tressilian’ s, who 
once more dismounted, stood with his horse’s bridle in his 
hand, breathless, and half exhausted with his fruitless exer- 
cise, though not one drop of moisture appeared on the freckled 
forehead of the urchin, which looked like a piece of dry and 
discolored parchment, drawn tight across the brow of a flesh- 
less skull. 

“ And tell me,” said Tressilian, “why you use me thus, thou 
mischievious imp? or what your meaning is by telling me so 
absurd a legend as you wished but now to put on me? Or 
rather show me in good earnest this smith’s forge, and I wil] 
give thee what will Duy thee apples through the whole winter,” 


KENILWORTH. 108 


*¢ Were you to give me an orchard of apples,” said Dickie 
Sludge, “I can guide thee no better than I have done. Lay 
down the silver token on the flat stone—whistle three times— 
then come sit down on the western side of the thicket of gorse; 
I will sit by you, and give you free leave to wring my head off, 
unless you hear the smith at work within two minutes after we 
are seated.” 

“I may be tempted to take thee at thy word,” said Tressil- 
ian, “if you make me do aught half so ridiculous for your 
own mischievous sport—however, I will prove your spell.— 
Here, then, I tie my horse to this upright stone—I must lay 
my silver groat here, and whistle three times sayest thou?” 

“ Ay, but thou must whistle louder than an unfledged ousel,” 
said the boy, as Tressilian, having laid down his money, and 
half ashamed of the folly he practiced, made a careless whistle 
—‘ You must whistle louder than that, for who knows where 
the smith is that you call for?—He may be in the king of 
France’s stables for what I know.” 

“ Why, you said but now he was no devil,” replied Tres- 
silian.” 

“ Man or devil,” said Dickie, ‘I see that I must summon 
him for you ;”’ and therewithal he whistled sharp and shrill, 
with an acuteness of sound that almost thrilled through Tres- 
silian’s brain—‘ That is what [ call whistling,’ said he, after 
he had repeated the signal thrice ; and now to cover, to cover, 
or Whitefoot will not be shod this day.” 

 Tressilian musing what the upshot of this mummery was to 
be, yet satisfied there was to be some serious result, by the con- 
fidence with which the boy had put himself in his power, 
suffered himself to be conducted to that side of the little thicket 
of gorse and brushwood, which was furthest from the circle. of 
stones, and there sat down: and as it occurred to him that, 
after all, this might be a trick for stealing: his horse, he kept 
his hand on the boy’s collar, determined to make him hostage 
for its safety. 

** Now, hush and listen,” said Dickie, in a low whisper ; 
“you will soon hear the tack of a hammer that was never 
forged of earthly iron, for the stone it was made of was shot 
from the moon.” And in effect Tressilian did immediately hear 
the light stroke of a hammer, as when a farrier is at work. 
The singularity of such a sound, inso very lonely a place, made 
him involuntarily start ; but looking at the boy, and discover- 
ing, by the arch malicious expression of his countenance, that 
the urchin saw and enjoyed his slight tremor, he became 
convinced that the whole was a concerted stratagem, and 


106 KENILWORTH. 


determined to know by whom, or for what purpose, the trick 
was played off. 

Accordingly, he remained perfectly quiet all the time that 
the hammer continued to sound, being about the space usually 
employed in fixing a horse-shoe. But the instant the sound 
ceased, Tressilian instead of interposing the space of time 
which his guide had requested, started up with his sword in 
his hand, ran round the thicket and confronted a man in a 
farrier’s leathern apron, but otherwise fantastically attired in a 
bear-skin dressed with the fur on, and a cap of the same, 
which almost hid the sooty and begrimed features of the wearer 
—‘‘Come back, come back!” cried the boy to Tressilian, 
“ or you will be torn to pieces—no man lives that looks on him.” 
—In fact, the invisible smith (now fully visible) heaved up his 
hammer, and showed symptoms of doing battle. 

But when the boy observed that neither his own entreaties, 
nor the menaces of the farrier appeared to change Tressilian’s 
purpose, but that, on the contrary, he confronted the hammer 
with his drawn sword, he exclaimed to the smith, in turn, 
“Wayland, touch him not, or you will come by the worse !— 
the gentleman is a true gentleman, and a bold.” 

“So thou hast betrayed me, Flibbertigibbet?” said the 
smith ; “it shall be the worse for thee!” 

** Be who thou wilt,” said Tressilian, “thou art inno danger 
from me, so thou tell me the meaning of this practice, and ni 
thou drivest thy trade in this mysterious fashion.” 

The smith, however, turning to Tressilian, exclaimed, in a 
threatening tone, “Who” questions the Keeper of the Crystal 
Castle of Light, the Lord of the Green Lion, the Rider of the 
Red Dragon ?—Hence !—avoid thee, ere I summon Talpack 
with his fiery lance, to quell, crush, and consume!” These 
words he uttered with violent gesticulation, mouthing, anJ 
flourishing his hammer. 

“Peace, thou vile cozener, with thy gypsy cant!” replied 
Tressilian, scornfully, “and follow me to the next magistrate, 
or I will cut thee over the pate.” 

“Peace, I pray thee, good Wayland!”’ said the boy; “ credit 
me, the swaggering vein will not pass here, you must cut boon 
whids !”’* 7 

“ I think, worshipful sir,” said the smith, sinking his hammer, 
and assuming a more gentle and submissive tone of voice, 
“that when so poor a man does his day’s job, he might be per: 
mitted to work it out after his own fashion. Your horse is 


* “ Give good words.”—Svang dialect. 


RENILWORTH. 10y 


shod and your farrier paid—What need you cumber yourself 
further than to mount and pursue your journey ? ” 

“ Nay, friend, you are mistaken,” replied Tressilian, “ every 
man has the right to take the mask from the face of a cheat and 
a juggler ; and your mode of living raises suspicion that you 
are both.” 

*‘ If you are so determined, sir,” said the smith, “ I cannot 
help myself save by force, which I were unwilling to use toward 
you, Master Tressilian; not that I fear your weapon, but 
because I know you to be a worthy, kind, and well-accomplished 
gentleman, who would rather help than harm a poor man that 
is in a strait.” 

“Well said, Wayland,” said the boy, who had anxiously 
awaited the issue of their conference. “ But let us to thy den, 
man, for it is ill for thy health to stand here talking in the 
open air.” 

“Thou art right, Hobgoblin,” replied the smith ; and going 
to the little thicket of gorse on the side nearest to the circle, 
and opposite to that at which his customer had so lately 
couched, he discovered a trap-door curiously covered with bushes, 
raised it, and, descending into the earth, vanished from their 
eyes. Notwithstanding Tressilian’s curiosity, he had some 
hesitation at following the fellow into what might be a den of 
robbers, especially when he heard the smith’s voice, issuing 
from the bowels of ‘the earth, call out, ‘ Flibbertigibbet, do you 
come last, and be sure to fasten the trap!” 

*¢ Have you seen enough of Wayland Smith now?” whispered 
the urchin to Tressilian, with an.arch sneer, as if marking his 
companion’s uncertainty. 

“Not yet,” said Tressilian, firmly; and shaking off his mo- 
mentary irresolution, he descended into the narrow staircase, to 
which the entrance led, and was followed by Dickie Sludge, 
who made fast the trap-door behind him, and thus excluded 
every glimmer of daylight. The descent, however, was only a 
few steps, and led to a level passage of a few yards’ length, at 
the end of which appeared the reflection of a lurid and red 
light. Arrived at this point, with his drawn sword in his hand, 
Tressilian found that a turn to the left admitted him and Hob- 
goblin, who followed closely, into a small square vault, contain- 
ing a smith’s forge, glowing with charcoal, the vapor of which 
filled the apartment with an oppressive smell, which would 
have been altogether suffocating, but that by some concealed 
vent the smithy communicated with the upper air. The light 
afforded by the red fuel, and by a lamp suspended in an iron 
chain, served to show that, besides an anvil, bellows, tongs, 


108 KENILWORTH. 


hammers, a quantity of ready-made horse-shoes, and other 
articles proper to the profession of a farrier, there were also 
stoves, alembics, crucibles, retorts, and other instruments of 
alchemy. The grotesque figure of the smith, and the ugly but 
whimsical features of the boy, seen by the gloomy and imperfect 
light of the charcoal fire and the dying lamp, accorded very well 
with all this mystical apparatus, and in that age of superstition 
would have made some impression on the courage of most men. 

But nature had endowed Tressilian with firm nerves, and his 
education, originally gaod, had been too. sedulously improved 
by susbsequent study to give way to any imaginary terrors; and 
after giving a glance around him, he again demanded of the 
artist who he was, and by what accident he came to know and 
address him by his name. 

“‘ Your worship cannot but remember,” said the smith, ‘ that 
about three years since, upon Saint Lucy’s Eve, there came a 
traveling juggler to a derfain Hall in Devonshite, and exhibited 
his skill before a worshipful knight and a fair company—I see 
from your worship’s countenance, dark as this place is, that any 
memory has not done me wrong.’ 

“Thou hast said enough,’ ’ said Tressilian, turning away, as 
wishing to hide from the ‘speaker the painful train of recollec- 
tions which his discourse had unconsciously awakened, 

“The juggler,” said the smith, “ played his part so bravely, 
that the clowns and clown-like squires in the company held his 
art to be little less than magical ; but there was one maiden of 
fifteen, or thereby, with the fairest face I ever looked upon, 
whose rosy cheek grew pale, and her bright. eyes, dim, at the 
sight of the wonders exhibited.” 

‘“‘ Peace, I command thee, peace !’’, said Tressilian. 

‘‘] mean your worship no offence,” said the fellow ; “ but J 
have cause to remember how, to relieve the young maiden’s 
fears, you. condescended to ‘point out the mode in, which these 
deceptions were practiced, and to baffle the poor, juggler by 
laying bare the mysteries of his art, as ably as if you had been 
a brother of his order.—She was indeed so fair a maiden, that 
to win a smile of her.a man might well” 

“Not a word more of her, a charge thee !”’ said Tressilian; 

I do well remember the night you speak of—one ot the few 
happy evenings my life has known.” 

‘“‘She is gone then,” said the smith, interpreting after his 
own fashion the sight with which Tressilian uttered these words 
—‘‘ She is gone, young, beautiful, and beloved as. she was !— 
I crave your worship’s pardon--I would have hammered on | 


KENILWORTH. 109 


another theme—I see I have unwarily driven the nail to the 
quick.” 

This speech was made with a mixture of rude feeling which 
inclined Tressilian favorably to the poor artisan, of whom before 
he was inclined to judge very harshly. But nothing can so 
soon attract the unfortunate, as real or seeming sympathy with 
their sorrows. 

‘‘T think,” proceeded Tressilian, after a minute’s silence, 
“thou wert in those days a jovial fellow, who could keep a com- 
pany merry by song, and tale, and rebeck, as well as by thy 
juggling tricks—why do I find thee a laborious handicraftsman, 
plying thy trade in so melancholy a dwelling, and under such 
extraordinary circumstances?” 

““My story is not long,” said the artist ; “ but your honor 
had better sit while you listen to it.” Sosaying, he approached 
to the fire a three-footed stool, and took another himself, while 
Dickie Sludge, or Flibbertigibbet, as he called the boy, drew a 
cricket to the smith’s feet, and looked up in his face with feat- 
ures which, as illuminated by the glow of the forge, seemed 
convulsed with intense curiosity—‘ ‘Thou too,” said the smith 
to him, “shalt learn, as thou well deservest at my hand, the 
brief history of my life, and, in troth, it were as well tell it thee 
as leave thee to ferret it out, since Nature never packed a 
shrewder wit into a more ungainly casket.—Well, sir, if my 
poor story may pleasure you, it is at your command :—But will 
you not taste a stoup of liquor? I promise you that even in 
this poor cell I have some in store.” 

“Speak not of it,” said Tressilian, “ but go on with thy 
story, for my leisure is brief.” 

‘You shall have no cause to rue the delay,” said the smith, 
“for your horse shall be better fed in the meantime than he 
hath been this morning, and made fitter for travel.” 

With that the artist left the vault, and returned after a few 
minutes’ interval. Here, also, we pause, that the narrative 
may commence in another chapter. 


ae KENILWORTH. 


CHAPTER ELEVENTH. 


I say, my lord, can such a subtilty, 
(But all his craft ye must not wot of me, 
And somewhat help I yet to his working), 
That all the ground on which we ben riding, 
Till that we come to Canterbury town, 
He can all clean turnen so up so down, 
And pave it all of silver and of gold. 
‘THE CANON’S YEOMAN’s PROLOGUE—CANTERBURY TALES, 


THE artist commenced his narrative in the following terms: 

“I was bred a blacksmith, and knew my art as well as e’er 
a black-thumb’d, leathern-apron’d swart-faced knave of that 
noble mystery. But I tired of ringing hammer-tunes on iron 
stithies, and went out into the world, where I became acquainted 
with a celebrated juggler, whose fingers had become rather too 
stiff for legerdemain, and who wished to have the aid of an 
apprentice in his nobie mystery. I served him for six years, 
until I was master of my trade.—I refer myself to your worship, 
whose judgment cannot be disputed, whether I did not learn to 
ply the craft indifferently well?” 

“Excellently,” said Tressilian ; ‘ but be brief.” 

“Tt was not long after I had performed at Sir Hugh Rob- 
sart’s in your worship’s presence,” said the artist, “that I took 
myself to the stage, and have swaggered with the bravest of 
them all, both at the Black Bull, the Globe, the Fortune, and 
elsewhere ; but I know not how—apples were so plenty that 
year, that the lads in the two-penny gallery never took more 
than one bite out of them, and threw the rest of the pippin at 
whatever actor chanced to be on the stage. So I tired of it— 
renounced my half share in the company—gave my foil to my 
comrade—my buskins to the wardrobe, and showed the theatre 
a clean pair of heels.” 

“Well, friend, and what,” said Tresilian, “was your next 
shift ?”’ 

“IT became,” said the smith, “half partner, half domestic to 
a man of much skill and little substance, who practiced the 
trade of a physicianer.’ 

“In other words,” said Pieesitials “you were Jack Pudding 
to a quacksalver.”’ 

‘Something beyond that, let me hope, my good Master 
Tressilian,” replied the artist; ‘‘and yet to say truth, our prac- 
tice was of an adventurous description, and the pharmacy 


KENILWORTH. rit 


which I had acquired in my first studies for the benefit of 
horses was frequently applied to our human patients. But the 
seeds of all maladies are the same; and if turpentine, tar, 
pitch, and beef-suet, mingled with turmeric, gum-mastic, and 
one head of garlic, can cure the horse that hath been grieved 
with a nail, I see not but what it may benefit the man that hath 
been pricked with a sword. But my master’s practice, as wel! 
as his skill, went far beyond mine, and dealt in more danger 
ous concerns. He was not only a bold and adventurous prac: 
titioner in physic, but also, if your pleasure so chanced to be, 
an adept, who read the stars, and expounded the fortunes of 
mankind, genethliacally, as he called it, or otherwise. He was 
a learned distiller of simples, and a profound chemist—made 
several efforts fo fix mercury, and judged himself to have made 
a fair hit at the philosopher’s stone. I have yet a programme 
of his on that subject, which, if your honor understandeth, I 
believe you have the better, not only of all who read, but also 
of him who wrote it.” 

He gave Tressilian a scroi! of parchment, bearing at top 
and bottom, and down the margin, the signs of the seven 
planets, curiously intermingled with talismanical characters and 
scraps of Greek and Hebrew. In the midst were some Latin 
verses from a cabalistical author, written out so fairly, that even 
the gloom of the place did not prevent Tressilian from reading 
them. ‘The tenor of the original ran as follows :— 


‘Si fixum solvas, faciasque volaresolutum, 
Et volucrem figas, facient te vivere tutum; 
Si pariat ventum, valet auri pondere centum; 
Ventus ubi vult spirat-—-Capiat qui capere potest.” 


“T protest to you,” said Tressilian, “all I understand of 
this jargon is, that the last words seem to mean, ‘Catch who 
catch can.’”’ 

“That,” said the smith, “is the very principle that my 
worthy friend and master, Doctor Doboobie, always acted 
upon; until, being besotted with his own imaginations, and 
conceited of his high chemical skill, he began to spend, in 
cheating himself, the money which he had acquired in cheating 
others, and either discovered or built for himself, I could never 
know which, this secret elaboratory, in which he used to se- 
clude himself both from patients and disciples, who doubtless 
thought his long and mysterious absences, from his ordinary 
residence in the town of Farringdon, were occasioned by his 
‘progress in the mystic sciences, and his intercourse with the 
invisible world. Me also he tried ta deceive; but though I 


nts KENILWORTH. 


contradicted him not, he saw that I knew too much of his 
secrets to be any longer a safe companion. Meanwhile, 
his name waxed famous, or rather infamous, and many of 
those who resorted to him did so under persuasion that he 
was a sorcerer. And yet his supposed advance in the oc- 
cult sciences drew to him the secret resort of men too power- 
ful to be named, for purposes too dangerous to be mentioned. 
Men cursed and threatened him, and bestowed on me, the in- 
nocent assistant of his studies, the nickname of the Devil’s 
foot-post, which procured me a volley of stones as soon as ever 
I ventured to show my face in the street of the village.. At 
Jength, my master suddenly disappeared, pretending to me that 
he was about to visit his elaboratory in this. place, and forbid- 
ding me to disturb him till two days were past. When this 
period had elapsed, I became anxious, and resorted to this 
vault, where I found the fires extinguished and the utensils in 
confusion, with a note from the learned Doboobius, as he was 
wont to style himself, acquainting me that we should never 
meet again, bequeathing me his chemical apparatus and the 
parchment which I have just put into your hands, advising me 
strongly to prosecute the secret which it contained, which 
would infallibly lead me to the discovery of the grand magis- 
terium.”’ 

“And didst thou follow this sage advice?” said Tressilian. 

‘“‘Worshipful sir, no,” replied the smith; “for being by 
nature cautious and suspicious, from knowing with whom I had 
to do, I made so many perquisitions before I ventured even to 
light a fire, that I at length discovered a small barrel of gun- 
powder, carefully hid beneath the furnace, with the purpose, 
no doubt, that as soon as I should commence the grand work of 
the transmutation of metals, the explosion should transmute the 
vault and all in it into a heap of ruins, which might serve at 
once for my slaughter-house and my grave. This cured me of 
alchemy, and fain would I have returned to the honest hammer 
and anvil; but who would bring a horse to be shod by the 
Devil’s post. Meantime I had won the regard of my honest 
Flibbertigibbet here, he being then at Farringdon with his 
master, the sage Erasmus Holiday, by teaching him a few 
secrets such as please youth at his age ; and after much counsel 
together, we agreed, that since I could get no practice in the 
ordinary way, [ should try how I could work out business 
among those ignorant boors. by practicing on their silly fears , 
and thanks to Fibbertigibbet, who hath spread my renown, I 
have not wanted custom. But it is won at too great risk, and 
I fear I shall be at length taken up for a wizard ; so that I 


KENILWORTH. 113 


seek but an opportunity to leave this vault when I can have 
the protection of some worshipful person against the fury of the 
populace, in case they chance to recognize me.” 

‘And art thou,” said Tressilian, “ perfectly acquainted with 
the roads in this country ?” 

“T could ride them every inch by midnight,” answered Way- 
Jand Smith, which was the name this adept had assumed. 

“’Thou hast no horse to ride upon,” said Tressilian. 

“Pardon me,” replied Wayland ; “I have as good a tit as 
ever yeoman bestrode ; and I forgot to say it was the best 
part of the mediciner’s legacy to me, excepting one or two of 
the choicest of his medical secrets, which I picked up without 
his knowledge and against his will.” 

“Get thyself washed and shaved, then,” said Tressilian ; 
“reform thy dress as well as thou canst, and fling away those 
grotesque trappings ; and, so thou wilt be secret and faithful, 
thou shalt follow me for a short time, till thy pranks here are 
forgotten. Thou hast, I think, both address and courage, and 
I have matter to do that may require both.” 

Wayland Smith eagerly embraced the proposal, and protested 
his devotion to his new master. In a very few minutes he 
had made so great an alteration in his original appearance, by 
change of dress, trimming his beard and hair, and so forth, that 
Tressilian could not help remarking, that he thought he would 
stand in little need of a protector, since none of his old 
acquaintance were likely to recognize him. 

“My debtors would not pay me money,’ said Wayland, 
shaking his head ; ‘but my creditors of every kind would be 
less easily blinded. And, in truth, I hold myself not safe, 
unless under the protection of a gentleman of birth and chars 
acter, as is your worship.” 

So saying he led the way out of the cavern. He then called 
loudly for Hobgoblin, who, after lingering for an instant, 
appeared with the horse furniture, when Wayland closed and 
sedulously covered up the trap-door, observing, it might again 
serve him at his need, besides that the tools were worth 
somewhat. A whistle from the owner brought to his side a 
nag that fed quietly on the common, and was accustomed to 
the signal. While he accoutred him for the journey, Tressilian 
drew his own girths faster, and in a few minutes both were 
ready to mount. 

At this moment Sludge approached to bid them farewell. 

“You are going to leave me, then, my old play-fellow,” said 
the boy ; “and there is an end of all our game at bo-peep with 


Lf 


rr4¢ KENILWORTH. 


the cowardly lubbards whom I brought hither to have their 
broad-footed nags shod by the devil and his imps ?” - 

“Tt is even so,” said Wayland Smith ; “the best friends 
must part, Flibbertigibbet ; but thou, my boy, art the only 
thing in the Vale of Whitehorse which I shall regret to leave 
behind me.” 

“Well, I bid thee not farewell,” said Dickie Sludge, ‘“ for 
you will be at these revels, I judge, and so shall 1; for if 
Dominie Holiday take me not thither, by the light of day, 
which we see not in yonder dark hole, I will take myself 
there !” 

“In good time,” said Wayland ; “but I pray you to do 
nought rashly.” 

‘“‘ Nay, now you would make a child—a common child of me, 
and tell me of the risk of walking without leading strings. But 
before you are a mile from these stones, you shall know, by a 
sure token, that I have more of the hobgoblin about me than 
you credit ; and I will so manage, that if you take advantage, 
you may profit by my prank.” 

“What dost thou mean, boy ?” said Tressilian ; but Flib- 
bertigibbet only answered with a grin and a caper, and bidding 
both of them farewell, and at the same time exhorting them 
to make the best of their way from the place, he set them the 
example by running homeward with the same uncommon veloc- 
ity with which he had baffled Tressilian’s former attempts to 
get hold of him. 

“Tt is in vain to chase him,” said Wayland Smith ; “for 
unless your worship is expert in lark-hunting, we should never 
catch hold of him—and besides what would it avail? Better 
make the best of our way hence, as he advises.” 

They mounted their horses accordingly, and began to pro- 
ceed at a round pace, as soon as Tressilian had explained to 
his guide the direction in which he desired to travel. 

After they had trotted nearly a mile, Tressilian could not 
help observing to his companion, that his horse felt more lively 
under him than even when he mounted in the morning. 

‘‘ Are you avised of that?” said Wayland Smith, smiling, 
“That is owing to a little secret of mine. I mixed that with 
an handful of oats which shall save your worship’s heels the 
trouble of spurring those six hours at least. Nay, I have not 
studied medicine and pharmacy for nought.” 

“T trust,” said Tressilian, “ your drugs will do my horse ne 
harm?” | 

“No more than the mare’s milk which foaled him,” answered 
the artist ; and was proceeding to dilate on the excellence of 


KENILWORTH. 118 


his recipe, when he was interrupted by an explosion as loud 
and tremendous as the mine which blows up the rampart of a 
beleaguered city. The horses started, and the riders were 
equally surprised. ‘They turned to gaze in the direction from 
which the thunder-clap was heard, and beheld just over the 
spot they had left so recently, a huge pillar of dark smoke ris- 
ing high into the clear blue atmosphere. ‘ My habitation is gone 
to wrack,” said Wayland, immediately conjecturing the cause of 
the explosion—“ I was a fool to mention the Doctor’s kind in- 
tentions toward my mansion before that limb of mischief Flib- 
bertigibbet—I might have guessed he would long to put so 
rare a frolic into execution. But let us hasten on, for the 
sound will collect the country to the spot.” 

So saying he spurred his horse, and Tressilian also quick- 
ening his speed, they rode briskly forward. 

“This, then, was the meaning of the little imp’s token which 
he promised us,” said Tressilian; “ had we lingered near the 
spot, we had found it a love-token with a vengeance.’ 

“He would have given us warning,” said the eae eT 
saw him look back more than once to see if we were off—’tis a 
very devil for mischief, yet not an ill-natured devil either. It 
were long to tell your honor how I became first acquainted with 
him, and how many tricks he played me. Many a good turn 
he did me too, especially in bringing me customers ; for his 
great delight was to see them sit shivering behind the bushes 
when they heard the click of my hammer. I think Dame 
Nature, when she lodged a double quantity of brains in that 
misshapen head of his, gave him the power of enjoying other 
people’s distresses, as she gave them the pleasure of laughing 
at his ugliness.” 

“It may be so,” said Tressilian ; “those who find them- 
selves severed from society by peculiarities of form, if they do 
not hate the common bulk of mankind, are at least not alto- 
gether indisposed to enjoy their mishaps and calamities.” 

“But Flibbertigibbet,” answered Wayland, “hath that 
about him which may redeem his turn for mischievous frolic ; 
for he is as faithful when attached, as he is tricky and malig- 
nant to strangers; and, as I said before, I have cause to say 
so.” 

Tressilian pursued the conversation no further, and they 
continued their journey toward Devonshire without further 
adventure, until they alighted at an inn in the town of Marl- 
borough, since celebrated for having given title to the greatest 
general (excepting one) whom Britain ever produced. Here 
the travelers received, in the same breath, an example of the 


116 KENILWORTH. 


truth of two old proverbs, namely, that 2/7 news fly fast, and 
that Listeners seldom hear a good tale of themselves. 

The inn-yard was in a sort of combustion when they alighted, 
insomuch, that they could scarce get man or boy to take care 
of their horses, so full were the whole household of some news 
which flew from tongue to tongue, the import of which they 
were for some time unable to discover. At length, indeed, they 
found it respected matters which touched them nearly. 

“What is the matter, say you master?” answered, at 
length, the head hostler, in reply to Tressilian’s repeated ques- 
tions—“* Why, truly, I scarce know myself. But here was a 
rider but now, who says that the devil hath flown away with 
him they called Wayland Smith, that won’d about three miles 
from the Whitehouse of Berkshire, this very blessed morning, 
in a flash of fire and a pillar of smoke, and rooted up the place 
he dwelt in, near that old cockpit of upright stones, as clearly 
as if it had all been delved up for a cropping.” 

“Why, then,” said an old farmer, ‘‘the more is’ the pity— 
for that Wayland Smith (whether he was the devil’s crony or 
no I skill not) had a good notion of horse diseases, and it’s to 
be thought the bots will spread in the country far and near, an 
Satan has not gien un time to leave his secret behind un.” 

‘“‘You may say that, Gaffer Grimsby,” said the hostler in 
return ; “ I have carried a horse to Wayland Smith myself, for 
he passed all farriers in this country.” 

‘Did you see him?” said Dame Alison Crane, mistress of 
the inn bearing that sign, and deigning to term Ausband the 
owner thereof, a mean-looking hop-o’-my-thumb sort of person, 
whose halting gait and long neck, and meddling henpecked in- 
significance, are supposed to have given origin to the celebrated 
old English. tune of “* My dame hath a lame tame Crane.” 

On- this occasion he chirp’d outa repetition of his wife’s 
question, ‘‘ Didst see the devil, Jack Hostley, I say ?” 

“ And what if I did see un, Master Crane?” replied Jack 
Hostler,—for, like all the rest of the household, he paid as 
little respect to his master as his mistress herself did. 

“Nay, nought, Jack Hostler,” replied the pacific Master 
Crane, “only if you saw the devil, methinks I would like to 
know what un’s like?” 

“ You will know that one day, Master Crane,” said his help: 
mate, ‘an ye mend not your manners, and mind your business, 
leaving off such idle palabras—But truly, Jack Hostler, I should 
be glad to know myself what like the fellow was.” 

‘““Why, dame,” said the hostler, more respectfully, “as for 


KENILWORTH. 117 


what he was like I cannot tell, norno man else, for why I nevey 
‘saw un.” 

“ And how didst thou get thine errand done,” said Gaffer 
Grimsby, “if thou seedst him not?” 

“Why, I had schoolmaster to write down ailment o’ nag,” 
said Jack Hostler; ‘and I went wi’ the ugliest slip of a boy 
for my guide as ever man cut out o’ lime-tree root to please a 
child withal.” 

“ And what was it ?—and did it cure your nag, Jack Hostler ?” 
—was uttered and echoed by all who stood around. 

“Why, how can I tell you what it was?” said the hostler ; 
“simply it smelled and tasted—for I did make bold to put a 
pea’s substance into my mouth—like hartshorn and savin 
mixed with vinegar—but then no hartshorn and savin ever 
wrought so speedy a cure—And I am dreading that if Wayland 
Smith be gone, the bots will have more power over horse and 
cattle.” 

The pride of art, which is certainly not inferior in its influ- 
ence to any other pride whatever, here so far operated on 
Wayland Smith, that, notwithstanding the obvious danger of 
his being recognized, he could not help winking to Tressilian, 
and smiling mysteriously, as if triumphing in the undoubted 
evidence of his veterinary skill. In the meanwhile, the discourse 
continued. 

“F’en let it be so,” said a grave man in black, the companion 
of Gaffer Grimsby; ‘‘e’en let us perish under the evil God 
sends us, rather than the devil be our doctor.” 

“Very true,” said Dame Crane; “and I marvel at Jack 
Hostler that he wouid peril his own soul to cure the bowels of 
a nag.” 

“‘Very true, mistress,” said Jack Hostler, “ but the nag was 
my master’s ; and had it been yours, I think ye would ha’ held 
me cheap enow an I had feared the devil when the poor beast 
was in such a taking. For the rest, let the clergy look to it. 
Every man to his craft, says the proverb, the parson to the 
prayer-book, and the groom to his curry-comb.” 

“I vow,” said Dame Crane, ‘I think Jack Hostler speaks 
like a good Christian and a faithful servant, who will spare 
neither body nor soul in his master’s service. However, the 
devil has lifted him in time, for a Constable of the Hundred 
came hither this morning to get old Gaffer Pinniewinks, the 
trier of witches, to go with him to the Vale of Whitehorse to 
comprehend Wayland Smith, and put him to his probation. I 
helped Penniewinks to sharpen his pincers and his poking-awl, 
and I saw the warrant from Justice Blindas.” 


rrs KENILWORTH. 


“¢ Pooh—pooh—the devil would laugh both at Blindas and 
his warrant, constable and witch-finder to boot,” said Old Dame 
Crank, the Papist laundress ; ‘‘ Wayland Smith’s flesh would 
mind Pinniewinks’ awl no more than a cambric ruff minds a 
hot piccadilloe-needle. But tell me, gentlefolks, if the devil 
ever had such a hand among ye, as to snatch away your smiths 
and your artists from under your nose, when the good Abbots 
of Abingdon had their own? By our Lady, no!—they had 
their hallowed tapers, and their holy water, and their relics, 
and what not, could send the foulest fiends a-packing.—Go ask 
a heretic parson to do the like—But ours were a comfortable 
people.” 

‘Very true, Dame Crank,” said the hostler; ‘‘so said Simp- 
kins of Simonburn when the curate kissed his wife,—‘ They are 
a comfortable people,’ said he.” 

* Silence, thou foul-mouthed vermin,” said Dame Crank; 
“is it fit for a heretic horseboy like thee, to handle such a text 
as the Catholic clergy?” 

“Tn troth no, dame,” replied the man of oats; and as you 
yourself are now no text for their handling, dame, whatever 
may have been the case in your day, I think we had e’en better 
leave un alone.” 

At this last exchange of sarcasm, Dame Crank set up her 
throat, and began a horrible exclamation against Jack Hostler, 
under cover of which Tressilian and his attendant escaped into 
the house. | 

They had no sooner entered a private chamber, to which 
Goodman Crane himself had condescended to usher them, and 
despatched their worthy and obsequious host on the errand of 
procuring wine and refreshment, than Wayland Smith began to 
give vent to his self-importance. 

‘You see, sir,” said he, addressing Tressilian, ‘‘ that I noth- 
ing fabled in asserting that I possessed fully the mighty mys- 
tery of a farrier, or mareschal, as the French more honorably 
term us. These dog hostlers, who, after all, are the better 
judges in such a case, know what credit they should attach to 
my medicaments. I call you to witness, worshipful Master 
Tressilian, that nought, save the voice of calumny and the hand 
of malicious violence, hath driven me forth from a station in 
which I held a place alike useful and honored.” 

‘“‘T bear witness, my friend, but will reserve my listening,* 
answered ‘Tressilian, “for a safer time; unless, indeed, you 
deem it essential to your reputation, to be translated, like your 
late dwelling, by the assistance of a flash of fire. For you see 
your best friends reckon you no better than a mere sorcerer,” 


KENILWORTH. 11g 


“Now, Heaven forgive them,” said the artist, “who con- 
found learned skill with unlawful magic! I trust a man may 
be as skilful, or more so, than the best chirurgeon ever meddled 
with horse flesh, and yet may be upon the matter little more 
than other ordinary men, or at the worst no conjuror.” 

“God forbid else!” said Tressilian. “ But be silent just 
for the present, since here comes mine host with an assistant, 
who seems something of the least.” 

Everybody about the inn, Dame Crank herself included, 
had been indeed so interested and agitated by the story they 
had heard of Wayland Smith, and by the new, varying, and 
more marvelous editions of the incident which arrived from 
various quarters, that mine host, in his righteous determination 
to accommodate his guests, had been able to obtain the assist- 
ance of none of his household, saving that of a little boy, a 
junior tapster, of about twelve years old, who was called 
Sampson. 

“‘] wish,” he said, apologizing to his guests, as he set down 
a flagon of sack, and promised some food immediately,—“ I 
wish the devil had flown away with my wife and my whole 
family instead of this Wayland Smith, who, I daresay, after all 
said and done, was much less worthy of the distinction which 
Satan has done him.” 

“I hold opinion with you, good fellow,” replied Wayland 
_ smith; “and I will drink to you upon that argument.” 

“ Not-that I would justify any man who deals with the 
devil,” said mine host, after having pledged Wayland in a rous- 
ing draught of sack, “but that—Saw ye ever better sack, my 
masters ?—but that, I say, a man had better deal with a dozen 
cheats and scoundrel fellows, such as this Wayland Smith, 
than with a devil incarnate, that takes possession of house and 
home, bed and board.” 

The poor fellow’s detail of grievances was here interrupted 
by the shrill voice of his helpmate, screaming from the kitchen, 
to which he instantly hobbled, craving pardon of his guests. 
He was no sooner gone than Wayland Smith expressed by 
every contemptuous epithet in the language, his utter scorn, for 
a nincompoop who stuck his head under his wife’s apron-string ; 
and intimated, that, saving for the sake of the horses, which 
required both rest and food, he would advise his worshipful 
Master Tressilian to push on a stage further, rather than pay 
a reckoning to such a mean-spirited, crow-trodden, henpecked 
coxcomb, as Gaffer Crane. 

The arrival of a large dish of good cow-heel and bacon 
something soothed the asperity of the artist, which wholly van- 


120 KENILWORTH, 


ished before a choice capon, so delicately roasted, that the lard 
frothed on it, said Wayland, like May-dew on a lily; and both 
Gaffer Crane and his good dame became in his eyes, very 
painstaking, accommodating, obliging persons. 

According to the manners of the times, the master and his 
attendant sat at the same table, and the latter observed, with 
regret, how little attention Tressilian paid to his meal. He 
recollected, indeed, the pain he had given by mentioning the 
maiden in whose company he had first seen him ; but, fearful 
of touching upon a topic too tender to be tampered with, he 
chose to ascribe his abstinence to another cause. 

‘“This fare is perhaps too coarse for your worship,” said 
Wayland, as the limbs of the capon disappeared before his own 
exertions; “but had you dwelt as long as I have done in 
yonder dungeon, which Flibbertigibbet has translated to the 
upper element, a place where I dared hardly broil my food, lest 
the smoke should be seen without, you would think a fair capon 
a more welcome dainty.” 

“If you are pleased, friend,” said Tressilian, “it is well, 
Nevertheless, hasten thy meal if thou canst, for this place is 
unfriendly to thy safety, and my concerns crave traveling.” 

Allowing, therefore, their horses no more rest than was abso- 
lutely necessary for them, they pursued their journey by a 
forced march as far as Bradford, where they reposed themselves 
for the night. 

The next morning found them early travelers. And, not to 
fatigue the reader with unnecessary particulars, they traversed 
without adventure the counties of Wiltshire and Somerset, and 
about noon of the third day after Tressilian’s leaving Cumnor, 
arrived at Sir Hugh Robsart’s seat, called Lidcote Hall, on the 
frontiers of Devonshire. 


CHAPTER TWELFTH. 


Ah me! the flower and blossom of your house, 
The wind hath blown away to Other towers. 
JOANNA BAILLIE’S FAMILY LEGEND. 


Tux ancient seat of Lidcote Hall was situated near the 
village of the same name, and adjoined the wild and extensive 
forest of Exmoor, pientifully stocked with game, in which some 
ancient rights, belonging to the Robsart family, entitled Sir 
Hugh to pursue his “favorite amusement of the chase. The 


KENILWORTH. 121 


old mansion was a low, venerable building, occupying a con- 
siderable space of ground, which was surrounded by a deep 
moat. ‘The approach and drawbridge were defended by an 
octagonal tower, of ancient brick-work, but so clothed with ivy 
and other creepers, that it was difficult to discover of what 
materials it was constructed. The angles of this tower were 
each decorated with a turret, whimsically various in form and 
in size, and, therefore, very unlike the monotonous stone pepper- 
boxes, which, in modern Gothic architecture, are employed for 
the same purpose. One of these turrets was square, and occu- 
pied as a clock-house. But the clock was now standing still ; 
a circumstance peculiarly striking to Tressilian, because the 
good old knight, among other harmless peculiarities, had a 
fidgety anxiety about the exact measurement of time, very 
common to those who have a great deal of that commodity to 
dispose of, and find it lie heavy upon their hands,—just as we 
see shopkeepers amuse themselves with taking an exact account 
of their stock at the time there is least demand for it. 

The entrance to the courtyard of the old mansion lay 
through an archway, surmounted by the aforesaid tower, but 
the drawbridge was down, and one leaf of the iron-studded 
folding-doors stood carelessly open. ‘Tressilian hastily rode 
over the drawbridge, entered the court, and began to call loudly 
on the domestics by their names. For some time he was only 
answered by the echoes and the howling of the hounds, whose 
kennel lay at no great distance from the mansion, and was 
surrounded by the same moat. At length Will Badger, the 
old and favorite attendant of the knight, who acted alike as 
squire of his body, and superintendent of his sports, made his 
appearance. ‘The stout, weather-beaten forester showed great 
signs of joy when he recognized Tressilian. 

‘Lord love you,” he said, “ Master Edmund, be it thou in 
flesh and fell ?—T hen, thou mayest do some ood on Sir Hugh, 
for it passes the wit of man, ‘that is, of mine own, and the 
Curate’s, and Master Mumblazen’s, to do aught wi’ un.” 

“Ts Sir Htugh then worse since I went away, Will?” de- 
manded Tressilian. 

“ For worse in body—no—he is much og ” replied the 
domestic ; “but he is clean mazed as it w and drinks 
as he was wont—but sleeps not, or rather wakes not, for he is 
ever in a sort of twilight, that is neither sleeping nor waking 
Dame Swineford thought it was like the dead palsy. —But, no, 
no, dame, said I, it is the heart, it is the heart.” 

“Can ye not stir his mind to any pastimes ?” said Tres- 
silian, 


Oe KENILWORTH. 


“ He is clean and quite off his sports,” said Will Badger; 
* hath neither touched backgammon or shovel-board—not 
looked on the big book of harrowtry wi’ Master Mumblazen. I 
let the clock run down, thinking the missing the bell might 
somewhat move him, for you know, Master Edmund, he was 
particular in counting time; but he never said a word on’t, so 
I may e’en set the old chime towling again. I made bold to 
tread on Bungay’s tail too, and you know what a round rating 
that would ha’ cost me once a-day—but he minded the poor 
tyke’s whine no more than a madge howlet whooping down the 
chimney—so the case is beyond me.” 

‘Thou shalt tell me the rest within doors, Will.—Mean- 
while, let this person be ta’en to the buttery, and used with 
respect—He is a man of art.” 

“White art or black art, I would,” said Will Badger, “ that 
he had any art which could help us.—Here, Tom Butler, look 
to the man of art—and see that he steals none of thy spoons, 
Jad,” he added, in a whisper to the butler, who showed himself 
at a low window. “I have known as honest a faced fellow have 
art enough to do that.” 

He then ushered Tressilian into a low parlor, and went,at 
his desire, to see in what state his master was, lest the sudden 
return of his darling pupil, and proposed son-in-law, should 
affect him too strongly. He returned immediately, and said 
that Sir Hugh was dozing in his elbow-chair, but that Master 
Mumblazen would acquaint Master ‘Tressilian the instant he 
awakened. 

* But it is chance if he knows you,” said the huntsman, 
“for he has forgotten the name of every hound in the pack. I 
thought about a week since he had gotten a favorable turn :— 
‘Saddle me old Sorrel,’ said he suddenly, after he had taken 
his usual night-draught out of the great silver grace cup, ‘and 
take the hounds to Mount Hazelhurst to-morrow.’ Glad men 
were we all, and out we had him in the morning, and he rode 
to cover as usual, with never a word spoken but that the wind 
was south, and the scent would lie. But ere we had uncoupled 
the hounds, he began to stare round him, like a man that 
wakes suddenly out of a dream—turns bridle and walks back to 
Hall again, and leaves us to hunt at leisure by ourselves, if we 
listed.” 

“ You tell a heavy tale, Will,” replied Tressilian; “ but God 
must help us—there is no aid in man.” 

“Then you bring us no news of young Mistress Amy ?—But 
what need I ask—your brow tells the storv. Ever I hoped, 
that if any man could or would track her, it must be you, Alls 


KENILWORTH. 123 


over and lost now. But if ever I have that Varney within 
reach of a flight-shot, I will bestow a forked shaft on him; and 
that I swear by salt and bread.” 

As he spoke the door opened, and Master Mumblazen ap- 
peared; a withered, thin, elderly gentleman, with a cheek like 
a winter apple, and his gray hair partly concealed by a small 
high hat, shaped like a cone, or rather like such a strawberry- 
basket as London fruiterers exhibit at their windows. He was 
too sententious a person to waste words on mere salutation; 
so, having welcomed Tressilian with a nod and a shake of the 
hand, he beckoned him to follow to Sir Hugh’s great chamber, 
which the good knight usually inhabited. Will Badger fol- 
lowed, unasked, anxious to see whether his master would be 
relieved from his state of apathy by the arrival of Tressilian. 

In a long low parlor, amply furnished with implements of 
the chase, and with silvan trophies, by a massive stone chimney, 
over which hung a sword and suit of armor, somewhat obscured 
by neglect, sat “Sir Hugh Robsart of I Lidcote, a man of large 
size, which had been only kept within moderate compass by 
the constant use of violent exercise. It seemed to Tressilian 
that the lethargy under which his old friend appeared to labor, 
had, even during his few weeks’ absence, added bulk to his per- 
son, at least it had obviously diminished the vivacity of his eye, 
which, as they entered, first followed Master Mumblazen slowly 
to a large oaken desk, on which a ponderous volume lay open, 
and then rested, as if in uncertainty, on the stranger who had 
entered along with him. The Curate, a cray-headed clergyman, 
who had been a confessor in the days of Queen Mary, sat with 
a book in his hand in another recess in the apartment. He, 
too, signed a mournful greeting to Tressilian, and laid his book 
aside, to watch the effect his appearance should produce on the 
afflicted old man. 

As Tressilian, his own eyes filling fast with tears, approached 
more and more nearly to the father of his betrothed bride, Sir 
Hugh’s intelligence seemed to revive. He sighed heavily, as 
one who awakens from a state of stupor, a slight convulsion 
passed over his features, he opened his arms without speaking 
a word, and as Tressilian threw himself into them, he folded 
him to his bosom. 

“There is something left to live for yet,” were the first words 
he uttered ; and while he spoke, he gave vent to his feelings in 
a paroxysm of weeping, the tears chasing each other down his 
sunburnt cheeks and long white beard. 

“T ne’er thought to have thanked God to see my maste1 


124 KENILWORTH. 


weep,” said Will Badger ; “but now I do, though I am like to 
weep for company.’ 

“‘T will ask thee no questions,” said the old knight; “no 
questions—none, Edmund—thou hast not found her, or so 
found her, that she were better lost.” 

Tressilian was unable to reply, otherwise than by putting 
his hands before his face. | 

“Tt is enough—it is enough. But do not thou weep for her, 
Edmund. Ihave cause to weep, for she was my daughter,— 
thou hast cause to rejoice, that she did not become thy wife.— 
Great God! thou knowest best what is good for us—It was my 
nightly prayer that I should see Amy and Edmund wedded,— 
had it been granted, it had now been gall added to bitterness.” 

‘“‘Be comforted, my friend,” said the Curate, addressing Sir 
Hugh, “it cannot be that the daughter of all our hopes and 
affections is the vile creature you would bespeak her. 

‘*Oh, no,” replied Sir Hugh, impatiently, “I were wrong 
to name broadly the base thing she is become—there is 
some new court name for it, I warrant me. It is honor 
enough for the daughter of an old De’nshire clown to be the 
leman of a gay courtier,—of Varney too,—of Varney, whose 
grandsire was relieved by my father, when his fortune was 
broken at the battle of—the battle of—where Richard was 
slain—out on my posinai !—and I warrant none of you will 
help me’ 

“he ‘abated ee Bosworth,” said Master Mumblazen, 
‘stricken between Richard Crookback and Henry ‘Tudor, 
srandsire of the Queen that now is, primo Henrict Septimt ; 
and in the year one thousand four hundred and eighty-five fost 
Christum natum.” 

‘“‘ Ay, even so,” said the old Knight, “ every child knows it 
—But my poor head forgets all it should remember, and 
remembers only what it would most willingly forget. My 
brain has been at fault, Tressilian, almost ever since thou hast 
been away, and even yet it hunts counter.’ : 

“Your worship,” said the good clergyman, “ had better retire 
to your apartment, and try to sleep for a little space,—the 
physician left 2 composing draught,—and our Great Physician 
has commanded us to use earthly means, that we may be 
strengthened to sustain the trials he sends us.” 

“True, true, old friend,” said Sir Hugh, and we will bear 
our trials manfully—We have lost but a woman.—See Tres- 
silian,”—he drew from his bosom a long ringlet of fair hair,— 
“see this lock !—I tell thee, Edmund, the very night she dis. 
appeared, when she bid me good even, as she was wont, sh3 


RENILWORTH. 125 


nung about my neck, and fondled me more than usual; and J, 
like an old fool, held her by this lock, until she took her scissors, 
severed it, and left it in my hand,—as all I was ever to see 
more of her.” 

Tressilian was unable to reply, well judging what a compli- 
cation of feelings must have crossed the bosom of the unhappy 
fugitive at that cruel moment. The clergyman was about to 
speak, but Sir Hugh interrupted him. 

“] know what you would say, Master Curate—after all, it is 
but a lock of woman’s tresses,—and by woman, shame, and sin, 
and death, came into an innocent world—And learned Master 
Mumblazen, too, can say scholarly things of their inferiority.” 

‘““ Cest Phomme,” said Master Mumblazen, “ gui se bast, et gui 
consetlle,”’ 

“True,” said Sir Hugh, “and we will bear us, therefore, like 
men who have both mettle and wisdom in us.— Tressilian, thou 
art as welcome as if thou hadst brought better news. But we 
have spoken too long dry-lipped.—Amy, fill a cup of wine 
to Edmund, and another to me.” ‘Then instantly recollecting 
that he had called upon her who could not hear, he shook his 
head, and said to the clergyman, “ This grief is to my bewildered 
mind what the Church of Lidcote is to our park : we may lose 
ourselves among the briars and thickets for a little space, but 
from the end of each avenue we see the old gray steeple and 
the grave of myforefathers. I would I were to travel that road 
to-morrow.” 

Tressilian and the Curate joined in urging the exhausted 
old man to lay himself to rest, and at length prevailed. 
Tressilian remained by his pillow till he saw that slumber at 
length sunk down on him, and then returned to consult with 
the Curate, what steps should be adopted in these unhappy 
circumstances. 

They could not exclude from these deliberations Master 
Michael Mumblazen ; and they admitted him the more readily, 
that besides what hopes they entertained from his sagacity, 
they knew him to be so great a friend to taciturnity, that there 
was no doubt of his keeping counsel. He was an old bachelor, 
of good family, but small fortune, and distantly related to the 
House of Robsart ; in virtue of which connection, Lidcote Hall 
had been honored with his residence for the last twenty years. 
His company was agreeable to Sir Hugh, chiefly on account of 
his profound learning, which, though it only related to heraldry 
and genealogy, with such scraps of history as connected them- 
selves with these subjects, was precisely of a kind to captivate 
the good old knight ; besides the convenience which he found 


126 KENILWORTH. 


in having a friend to appeal to, when his own memory, as 
frequently happened, proved infirm, and played him false 
concerning names and dates, which, and all similar deficiencies, 
Master Michael Mumblazen suj splied with due brevity and 
discretion. And, indeed, in matters concerning the modern 
world, he often gave, in his enigmatical and heraldic phrase, 
advice which was well worth attending to, or in Will Badger’s 
language, started the game while others beat the bush, 

‘© We have had an unhappy time of it with the good Knight, 
Master Edmund,” said the Curate. ‘‘ I have not suffered so 
much since I was torn away from my beloved flock, and com- 
pelled to abandon them to the Romish wolves.” 

“That was iz Zertio Marie,’ said Master Mumblazen. 

‘In the name of Heaven,” continued the Curate, ‘“ tell us, 
has your time been better spent than ours, or have you any 
news of that unhappy maiden, who, being for so many years 
the principal joy of this broken-down house, is now proved our 
greatest unhappiness? Have you not at least discovered her 
place of residence ? ” 

“ T have,” replied Tressilian. ‘ Know you Cumnor Place, 
near Oxford ? ”’ 

“‘ Surely,” said the clergyman ; ‘‘ it was a house of removal 
for the monks of Abingdon.” 

‘‘ Whose arms,” said Master Michael, “‘ I have seen over a 
stone chimney in the hall—a cross patonee betwixt four 
martlets.”’ 

“ There,” said Tressilian, “this unhappy maiden resides, in 
company with the villain Varney. But for a strange mishap, 
my sword had revenged all our injuries, as well as hers, on. his 
worthless head.” 

“Thank God, that kept thine hand from blood-guiltiness, 
rash young man !” answered the Curate. ‘ Vengeance is mine, 
saith the Lord, and I will repay it. It were better study to 
free her from the villain’s nets of infamy.” 

“* They are called in heraldry, Zaguet amoris, or lacs @amour,” 
said Mumblazen. 

“ Itis in that I require your aid, my friends,” said Tressilian ; 
“Tam resolved to accuse this villain, at the very foot of the 
throne, of falsehood, seduction, and breach of hospitable laws, 
The Queen shall hear me, though the Earl of Leicester, the 
villain’s patron, stood at her right hand.” 

“ Her Grace,” said the Curate, “ hath set a comely example 
of continence to her subjects, and will doubtless do justice on 
this inhospitable robber. But wert thou not better apply to 
the Earl of Leicester, in the first place, for justice on his servant? 


KENILWORTH. 124 


If he grants it, thou dost save the risk of making thyself a 
powerful adversary, which will certainly chance, if, in the first 
instance, you accuse his master of the horse and prime favorite 
before the Queen.” 

“ My mind revolts from your counsel,” said Tressilian. ‘I 
cannot brook to plead my noble patron’s cause—the unhappy 
Amy’s cause--before any one save my lawful Sovereign. Let- 
cester, thou wilt say, is noble—be it so—he is but a subject like 
ourselves, and I will not carry my plaint to him, if I can do 
better. Still, I will think on what thou hast said,—but I must 
have your assistance to persuade the good Sir Hugh to make 
me his commissioner and fiduciary in this matter, for it is in 
his name I must speak, and not in my own. Since she is so 
far changed, as to dote upon this empty profligate courtier, he 
shall at least do her the justice which is yet in his power.” 

“ Better she died celebs and sine prole,” said Mumblazen, 
with more animation than he usually expressed, ‘‘ than part, 
per pale, the noble coat of Robsart with that of such a 
miscreant !” 

“Tf it be your object, as I cannot question,” said the clergy- 
man, “ to save, as much as is yet possible, the credit of. this 
unhappy young woman, I repeat, you should apply, in the first 
instance to the Earl of Leicester. He is as absolute in his 
household as the Queen in her kingdom, and if he expresses to 
Varney that such is his pleasure, her honor ,will not stand so 
publicly committed.” 

“ You are right, you are right,” said Tressilian eagerly, “ and 
I thank you for pointing out what I overlooked in my haste. I 
little thought ever tohave besought grace of Leicester; but I 
could kneel to the proud Dudley, if doing so could remove 
one shade of shame from this unhappy damsel. You will 
assist me then to procure the necessary powers from Sir Hugh 
Robsart ?” 
| The Curate assured him of his assistance, and the herald 
nodded. assent. 

“You must hold yourselves also in readiness to testify in 
case you are called upon, the open-hearted hospitality which 
our good patron exercised toward this deceitful traitor, and 
the solictitude with which he labored to seduce his unhappy 
daughter.” 

“ At first,”’ said the clergyman, “ she did not, as it seemed 
to me, much affect his company, but latterly I saw them often 
together.”’ 

‘‘Seiant in the parlor,” said Michael Mumblazen, “ and 
passant in the garden,” 


128 KENILWORTH. 


“T once came on them by chance,” said the priest, “in the 
South wood, in a spring evening—Varney was muffled in a russet 
cloak, so that I saw not his face,—they separated hastily, as 
they heard me rustle amongst the leaves, and I observed she 
turned her head and looked long after him.” 

“ With neck veguvardant,” said the herald—“ and on the day 
of her flight, and that was on Saint Austen’s Eve, I saw Var- 
ney’s groom, attired in his liveries, hold his master’s horse and 
Mistress Amy’s palfrey, bridled and saddled frvofer, behind the 
wall of the churchyard.” 

‘ And now she is found mewed up in his secret place of re- 
tirement,” said Tressilian. ‘‘ The villain is taken in the man- 
ner; and I well wish he may deny his crime, that I may thrust 
conviction down his false throat! But I must prepare for my 
journey. Do you, gentlemen, dispose my patron to grant me 
such powers as are needful to act in his name.” 

So saying, Tressilian left the room. 

“He is too hot,” said the Curate; ‘‘ and I pray to God that 
he may grant him the patience to deal with Varney as is fitting.” 

“Patience and Varney,” said Mumblazen, ‘is worse her- 
aldry than metal upon metal. He is more false than a siren, 
more rapacious than a griffin, more poisonous than a wyvern, 
and more cruel than a lion rampant.” 

“Yet I doubt much,” said the Curate, ‘whether we can 
with all riglit ask from Sir Hugh Robsart, being in his present 
condition, any deed deputing his paternal right in Mistress Amy 
to whomsoever”’ 

“Your reverence need not doubt that,” said Will Badger, 
who entered as he spoke, ‘‘for I will lay my life he is another 
man when he wakes, than he has been these thirty days past.” 

“* Ay, Will,” said the Curate, “‘hast thou then so much con- 
fidence in Doctor Diddleum’s draught ?” 

“Not a whit,” said Will, “ because master ne’er tasted a 
drop on’t seeing it was emptied out by the housemaid. But 
here’s a gentleman, who came attending on Master Tressilian, | 
has given Sir Hugh a draught that is worth twenty of yon un, 
I have spoken cunningly with him, and a better farrier, or one 
who hath a more just notion of horse and dog ailment, I have 
never seen; and such a one would never be unjust to a Chris- 
tian man.” | 

“A farrier! you saucy groom—And by whose authority, 
pray?” said the Curate, rising in surprise and indignation ; “or 
who will be warrant for this new physician ?” 

“For authority, an it like your reverence, he had mine ; 
and for warrant, I trust I have not been five-and-twenty years 


KENILWORTH. 129 


in this house, without having right to warrant the giving of a 
draught to beast or body—I who can gie a drench and a ball, 
and bleed, or blister, if need, to my very self.” 

The counselors of the house of Robsart thought it meet to 
carry this information instantly to Tressilian, who has speedily 
summoned before him Wayland Smith, and demanded of him 
(in private however) by what authority he had ventured to ad- 
minister any medicine to Sir Hugh Robsart ? 

_ “ Why,” replied the artist, “‘ your worship cannot but remem- 
ber that I told you I had made more progress into my master’s 
—I mean the learned Doctor Doboobie’s—mystery than he was 
willing to own; and indeed half of his quarrel and malice 
against me was, that, besides that I got something too deep 
into his secrets, several discerning persons, and particularly a 
buxom young widow of Abingdon, preferred -my prescriptions 
to his.” 

“None of thy buffoonery, sir,” said Tressilian, sternly. “ If 
thou hast trifled with us—much more, if thou hast done aught 
that may prejudice Sir Hugh Robsart’s health, thou shalt find 
thy grave at the bottom of a tin-mine.” 

“I know too little of the great arcanum to convert the ore 
to gold,” said Wayland, firmly. ‘‘ But truce to your appre- 
hensions, Master Tressilian—I understood the good Knight’s 
case, from what Master William Badger told me; and I hope 
I am able enough to administer a poor dose of mandragorn, 
which, with the sleep that must needs follow, is all that Sir 
Hugh Robsart requires to settle his distraught brains ?” 

“T trust thou dealest fairly with me, Wayland?” said Tres- 
silian. 

“Most fairly and honestly, as the event shall show,” replied 
the artist. ‘What would it avail me to harm the poor old 
man for whom you are interested? you, to whom I owe it, that 
Gaffer Pinniewinks is not even now rending my flesh and sinews 
with his accursed pincers, and probing every mole in my body 
with his sharpened awl (a murrain on the hands which forged 
it!) in order to find out the witch’s mark !—I trust to yoke 
myself as a humble follower to your worship’s train, and I only 
wish to have my faith judged of by the result of the good 
Knight’s slumbers.” 

Wayland Smith was right in his prognostication. The seda- 
tive draught which his skill had prepared, and Will Badger’s 
confidence had administered, was attended with the most bene- 
ficial effects. The patient’s sleep was long and healthful ; and 
the poor old knight ‘awoke, humbled indeed in thought, and 
weak in frame, yet a much better judge of whatever was sub- 


£30 KENILWORTH. 


jected to his intellect than he had been forsome time past. He 
resisted for a while the proposal made by his friends, that 
Tressilian should undertake a journey to court, to attempt the 
recovery of his daughter, and the redress of her wrongs, in so 
far as they might yet be repaired. ‘Let her go,” he said 5 
“she is but a hawk that goes down the wind; I would not 
bestow even a whistle to reclaim her.” But though he for some 
time maintained this argument, he was at length convinced it 
was his duty to take the part to which natural affection inclined 
him, and consent that such efforts as could yet be made should 
be used by Tressilian in behalf of his daughter. He subscribed, 
therefore, a warrant of attorney, such as the Curate’s skill 
enabled him to draw up; for in those simple days the clergy 
were often the advisers of their flock in law as well as in 
gospel. 
All matters were prepared for Tressilian’s second departure, 
within twenty-four hours after he had returned to Lidcote Hall ; 
but one material circumstance had been forgotten, which 
was first called to the remembrance of Tressilian by Master 
Mumblazen. ‘“ Youare going to court, Master Tressilian,” said 
he; ‘‘you will please remember that your blazonry must be 
argent, and or—no other tinctures will pass current.” The 
remark was equally just and embarrassing. To prosecute a suit 
at court, ready money was as indispensable even in the golden 
days of Elizabeth as at any succeeding period; and it wasa 
commodity little at the command of the inhabitants of Lidcote 
Hall. ‘Tressilian was himself poor; the revenues of good Sir 
Hugh Robsart were consumed, and even anticipated, in his 
hospitable mode of living ; and it was finally necessary that the 
herald who started the doubt should himself solve it. - Master 
Michael Mumblazen did so by producing a bag of money, con- 
taining nearly three hundred pounds in gold and silver ‘of 
various coinage, the savings of twenty years; which he now, 
without speaking a syllable upon the subject, dedicated to the 
service of the patron whose shelter and protection had given 
him the means of making this little hoard. Tressilian accepted 
it without affecting a moment’s hesitation, and a mutual grasp 
of the hand was all that passed betwixt them, to express the 
pleasure which the one felt in dedicating his all to such a pur- 
pose, and that which the other received from finding so material 
an obstacle to the success of his journey so suddenly removed, 
and in a manner so unexpected. 

While Tressilian was making preparations for his departure 
early the ensuing morning, Wayland Smiith desired to speak 
with him ; and, expressing his hope that he had been pleased 


KENILWORTH. ‘131 


with the operation of his medicine in behalf of Sir Hugh 
Robsart, added his desire to accompany him to court. ‘This 
was indeed what Tressilian himself had several times thought 
of ; for the shrewdness, alertness of understanding, and variety 
of resource, which this fellow had exhibited during the time 
they had traveled together, had made him sensible that his 
assistance might be of importance. But then Wayland was in 
danger from the grasp of the law; and of this Tressilian re- 
minded him, mentioning something, at the same time, of the 
pincers of Pinniewinks, and the warrant of Master Justice 
Blindas. Wayland Smith laughed both to scorn. 

“See you, sir!” said he, “I have changed my garb from 
that of a farrier to a serving-man; but were it still as it was, 
look at my mustaches—they now hang down—lI will but turn 
them up, and dye them a tincture that I know of, and the devil 
will scarce know me again.” 

He accon.panied these words with the appropriate action; 
and in less than a minute, by setting up his mustaches and his 
hair, he seemed a different person from him that had but now 
entered the room. Still, however, Tressilian hesitated to accept 
his services, and the artist became proportionably urgent. 

“TI owe you life and limb,” he said, “* and I would fain pay 
a part of the cebt, especially as I know from Will Badger on 
what dangerous service your worshipis bound. I do not, indeed, 
pretend to be what is called a man of mettle, one of those ruf- 
fling tear-cats, who maintain their master’s quarrel with sword 
and buckler. Nay, I am even one of those who hold the end 
of a feast better than the beginning of a fray. But I know that 
I can serve your worship better in such quest as yours than 
any of these sword-and-dagger men, and that my head will be 
worth an hundred of their hands.” 

Tressilian still hesitated. He knew not much of this strange 
fellow, and was doubtful how far he could repose in him the 
confidence necessary to render him a useful attendant upon the 
present emergency. Ere he had come to a determination, the 
trampling of a horse was heard in the courtyard, and Master 
Mumblazen and Will Badger both entered hastily into Tres- 
silian’s chamber, speaking almost at the same moment. 

“Here is aserving-man on the bonniest gray tit I ever see’d 
in my life,” said Will Badger, who got the start ; “ having 
on his arm a silver cognizance, being a fire-drake holding in his 
mouth a brick-bat, under a coronet of an Earl’s degree,” 
said Master Mumblazen, “and bearing a letter sealed of the 
same.” 

Tressilian took the letter, which was addressed “To the 


132 KENILWORTH. 


worshipful Master Edmund Tressilian, our loving kinsman— 
These—ride, ride, ride—for thy life, for thy life, for thy life.” 
He then opened it, and found the following contents :— 


“‘ MASTER TRESSILIAN, OUR 
GOOD FRIEND AND COUSIN, 


“ We are at present so ill at ease, and otherwise so unhap- 
pily circumstanced, that we are desirous to have around us 
those of our friends on whose loving kindness we can most es- 
pecially repose confidence ; amongst whom we hold our good 
Master ‘Tressilian one of the foremost and nearest, both in good 
will and good ability. We therefore pray you, with your most 
convenient speed, to repair to our poor lodging, at Say’s Court, 
near Deptford, where we will treat farther with you of matters 
which we deem it not fit to commit unto writing. And so we 
bid you heartily farewell, being your loving kinsman to com- 
mand, 

“ RATCLIFFE, EARL OF SUSSEX.” 


“Send up the messenger instantly, Will Badger,” said Tres- 
silian ; and as the man entered the room, he exclaimed, “ Aha, 
Stevens, is it you? how does my good lord?” 

“Ill, Master Tressilian,” was the messenger’s reply, “ and 
having therefore the more need of good friends around him.” 

‘¢ But what is my lord’s malady ?” said Tressilian anxiously. 
* TY heard nothing of his being ill.” 

‘| know not, sir,” replied the man; “he is very ill at ease. 
The leeches are at a stand, and many of his household suspect 
foul practice—witchcraft, or worse.” 

“What are the symptoms?” said Wayland Smith, stepping 
forward hastily. 

_ “Anan?” said the messenger, not comprehending his mean- 
ing. 

“What does he ail?” said Wayland ; “ where lies his dis- 
ease ?”’ 

The man looked at Tressilian, as if to know whether he 
should answer these inquiries from a stranger, and receiving a 
sign in the affirmative, he hastily enumerated gradual loss of 
strength, nocturnal perspiration, and loss of appetite, faintness, 
etc, 

“Joined,” said Wayland, “ to a gnawing pain in the stomach, 
and a low fever ?”’ 

“Even so,” said the messenger, somewhat surprised. 

“I know how the disease is caused,” said the artist, “and 


KENILWORTH. 133 


I know the cause. Your master has eaten of the manna of 
Saint Nicholas. I know the cure to—my master shall not say 
[ studied in his laboratory for nothing.” 

“How mean you?” said Tressilian, frowning; “we speak 
of one of the first nobles of England. SBethink you, this is no 
subject for buffoonery.”’ 

“God forbid!” said Wayland Smith. “I say that I know 
his disease and can cure him. Remember what I did for Sir 
Hugh Robsart.” 

“We will set forth instantly,” said Tressilian. ‘‘God calls 
us.” 

Accordingly, hastily mentioning this new motive for his 
instant departure, though without alluding to either the suspi- 
cions of Stevens or the assurances of Wayland Smith, he took 
the kindest leave of Sir Hugh and the family at Lidcote Hall, 
who accompanied him with prayers and blessings, and, attended 
by Wayland and the Earl of Sussex’s domestic, traveled with 
the utmost speed toward London. 


CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. 


Ay, I] know you have arsenic, 

Vitriol, sal-tartre, argaile, alkaly, 

Cinoper : I know all.—This fellow, Captain, 
Will come in time to be a great distiller, 

And give a say (I will not say directly, 

But very near) at the philosopher’s stone. 

THE ALCHEMIST. 


TRESSILIAN and his attendants pressed their route with all 
despatch. He had asked the smith, indeed, when their de- 
parture was resolved on, whether he would not rather choose to 
avoid Berkshire, in which he had played a part so conspicuous ? 
But Wayland returned a confident answer. He had employed 
the short interval they passed at Lidcote Hall in transforming 
himself in a wonderful manner. His wild and overgrown thicket 
of beard was now restrained to two small mustaches on the 
upper lip, turned up in a military fashion. A tailor from the 
village of Lidcote (well paid) had exerted his skill, under his 
customer’s directions, so as completely to alter Wayland’s out: 
ward man, and take off from his appearance almost twenty 
years of age. Formerly, besmeared with soot and charcoal— 
overgrown with hair, and bent double with the nature of his 
labor—disfigured too by his odd and fantastic dress, he seemed 


134 KENILWORTH. 


a man of fifty years old. But now, in a handsome suit of Tres- 
silian’s livery, with a sword by his side, and a buckler on his 
shoulder, he looked like a gay ruffling serving-man, whose age 
might be betwixt thirty and thirty-five, the very prime of human 
life. His loutish savage-looking demeanor seemed equally 
changed into a forward, sharp, and impudent alertness of look 
and action. : 

When challenged by Tressilian, who desired to know the 
cause of a metamorphosis so singular and so absolute, Wayland 
only answered by singing a stave from a comedy, which was 
then new, and was supposed, among the more favorable judges, 
to augur some genius on the part of the author. Weare happy 
to. preserve the couplet, which ran exactly thus— 


‘Ban, ban, ca Caliban— 
Get a new master—Be a new man.’’ 


Although Tressilian did not recollect the verses, yet they re- 
minded him that Wayland had once been a stage-player, a cir 
cumstance which, of itself, accounted indifferently well for the 
readiness with which he could assume so total a change of per- 
sonal appearance. ‘The artist himself was so confident of his 
disguise being completely changed, or of his having completely 
changed his disguise, which may be the more correct mode of 
speaking, that he regretted they were not to pass near his old 
place of retreat. 

‘“‘T could venture,” he said, ‘in my present dress, and with 
your worship’s backing, to face Master Justice Blindas, even 
on a day of Quarter Sessions; and I would like to know what 
is become of Hobgoblin, who is like to play the devil in the 
world, if he can once slip the string, and leave his granny and 
his Dominie—Ay, and the scathed vault!” he said: “I would 
willingly have seen what havoc the explosion of so much gun- 
powder has made among Doctor Demetrius Doboobie’s retorts 
and phials. JI warrant me, my fame haunts the Vale of the 
Whitehorse long after my body is rotten; and that many a lout 
ties up his horse, lays down his silver groat, and pipes like a 
sailor whistling in a calm, for Wayland Smith to come and shoe 
his tit for him, But the horse will catch the founders ere the 
smith answers the call.” 

In this particular, indeed, Wayland proved a true prophet ; 
and so easily do fables rise, that an obscure tradition of his 
extraordinary practice in farriery prevails in the Vale of White- 
horse even unto this day; and neither the tradition of Alfred’s 
Victory, nor of the celebrated Pusey Horn, are better preserved 
in Berkshire than the wild legend of Wayland Smith.* 

*NoteC. Legend of Wayland Smith 


KENILWORTH. 135 


The haste of the travelers admitted their making no stay 
upon their journey, save what the refreshment of the horses 
required ; and as many of the places through which they passed 
were under the influence of the Earl of Leicester, or persons 
immediately dependent on him, they thought it prudent to 
disguise their names, and the purpose of their journey. On 
such occasions the agency of Wayland Smith (by which name 
we shall continue to distinguish the artist, though his real name 
was Lancelot Wayland) was extremely serviceable. He seemed 
indeed, to have a pleasure in displaying the alertness with which 
he could baffle investigation, and amuse himself by putting the 
curiosity of tapsters and innkeepers on a false scent. During 
the course of their brief journey, three different and inconsistent 
reports were circulated by him on their account; namely, first, 
that Tressilian was the Lord Deputy of Ireland, come over in 
disguise to take the Queen’s pleasure concerning the great rebel 
Roy Oge MacCarthy MacMahon; secondly, that the said Tres- 
silian was an agent of Monsieur, coming to urge his suit to the 
hand of Elizabeth; thirdly, that he was the Duke of Medina, 
come over, incognito, to adjust the quarrel betwixt Philip and 
that Princess. 

Tressilian was angry, and exposulated with the artist on the 
various inconveniences, and, in particular, the unnecessary 
degree of attention to which they were subjected by the fig- 
ments he thus circulated; but he was pacified (for who could 
be proof against such an argument?) by Wayland’s assuring 
him that the general importance was attached to his own (Tres- 
silian’s) striking presence, which rendered it necessary to give 
an extraordinary reason for the rapidity and secrecy of his 
journey. 

At length they approached the metropolis, where, owing to 
the more general recourse of strangers, their appearance excited 
_ neither observation nor inquiry, and finally they entered London 
itself. 

It was Tressilian’s purpose to go down directly to Deptford, 
where Lord Sussex resided, in order to be near the court, then 
held at Greenwich, the favorite residence of Elizabeth, and 
honored as her birthplace. Still a brief halt in London was 
necessary; and it was somewhat prolonged by the earnest 
entreaties of Wayland Smith, who desired permission to take a 
walk through the city. 

‘Take thy sword and buckler, and follow me then,” said 
Tressilian ; ‘‘ J-am about to walk myself, and we will go in 
company.” 

This he said, because he was not altogether so secure of the 


136 - KENILWORTH. 


fidelity of his new retainer, as to lose sight of him at this inter 
esting moment, when the rival factions at the court of Elizabeth 
were running so high. Wayland Smith willingly acquiesced 
in the precaution, of which he probably conjectured the motive, 
but only stipulated, that his master should enter the shops of 
such chemists or apothecaries as he should point out, in walking 
through Fleet Street, and permit him to make some necessary 
purchases. ‘Tressilian agreed, and obeying the signal of his 
attendant, walked successively into more than four or five shops, 
where he observed that Wayland purchased in each only one 
single drug, in various quantities, The medicines which he 
first asked for were readily furnished, each in succession, but 
those which he afterward required were less easily supplied— 
and Tressilian observed, that Wayland more than once, to the 
surprise of the shopkeeper, returned the gum or herb that was 
offered to him, and compelled him to exchange it for the right 
sort, or else went on to seek it elsewhere. But one ingredient, in 
particular, seemed almost impossible to be found. Some chemists 
plainly admitted they had never seen it—others denied that 
such a drug existed, excepting in the imagination of crazy al- 
chemists—and most of them attempted to satisfy their customer, 
by producing some substitute, which, when rejected by Wayland 
as not being what he had asked for, they maintained possessed, 
in a superior degree, the self-same qualities. In general, they 
all displayed some curiosity concerning the purpose for which 
he wanted it. One old meagre chemist, to whom the artist 
put the usual question, in terms which Tressilian neither under- 
stood nor could recollect, answered frankly, there was none of 
that drug in London, unless Yoglan the Jew chanced to have 
some of it upon hand. 

‘““T thought as much,” said Wayland. And as soon as they 
left the shop, he said to Tressilian, ‘I crave your pardon, sir, 
but no artist can work without his stools. I must needs go to | 
this Yoglan’s ; and I promise you, that if this detains you longer 
than your leisure seems to permit, you shall, nevertheless, be 
well repaid, by the use I will make of this rare drug. Permit 
me,” he added, “to walk before you, for we are now to quit the 
broad street, and we will make double speed if [lead the way.” 

Tressilian acquiesced, and, following the smith down a lane 
which turned to the left hand toward the river he found that his 
guide walked on with great speed, and apparently perfect knowl- 
edge of the town, through a labyrinth of by-streets, courts, and 
blind alleys, until at length Wayland paused in the midst of a 
very narrow lane, the termination of which showed a peep of the 
Thames looking misty and muddy, which background was 


KENILWORTH. 139 


crossed saltierwise, as Mr. Mumblazen might have said, by the 
masts of two lighte rs that lay waiting for the tide. The shop 
under which he halted had not, as in modern days, a glazed 
window—but a paltry canvas screen surrounded such a stall as 
a cobler now occupies, having the front open, much in the man- 
ner of a fishmonger’s booth of the present day. A little old 
smock-faced man, the very reverse of a Jew in complexion, for 
he was very soft- haired as well as beardless, appeared, and with 
many courtesies asked Wayland what he pleased to want. He 
had no sooner named the drug, than the Jew started and looked 
surprised. ‘ And vat might your worship vant with that drug, 
which is not named, mein God, in forty years as I have been 
chemist here ?” 

“These questions it is no part of my commission to answer,” 
said Wayland; ‘I only wish to know if you have what I want, 
and having it, are willing to sell it?” 

“Ay, mein God, for having it, that I have, and for selling 
it, [am achemist, and sell every drug.” So saying, he exhibit- 
ed a powder, and then continued, ‘‘ But it will cost much 
moneys—Vat I ave cost its weight in gold—ay, gold well re- 
fined—I vill say six times—It comes from Mount Sinai, where 
we had our blessed Law given forth, and the plant blossoms but 
once in one hundred year.” 

**T do not know how often it is gathered on Mount Sinai,” 
said Wayland, after looking at the drug offered him with great 
disdain, “ but I will wager my sword and buckler against your 
gaberdine, that this trash you offer me, instead of what I asked 
for, may be had for gathering any day of the week in the castle- 
ditch of Aleppo.” 

“You are a rude man,” said the Jew; “and, besides I ave 
no better than that—or if I ave, I will not sell it without order 
of a physician—or without you tell me vat you make of it.” 

The artist made brief answer in a language of which Tres- 
silian could not understand a word, and which seemed to 
strike the Jew with the utmost astonishment. He stared upon 
Wayland like one who has suddenly recognized some mighty 
hero or dreaded potentate, inthe person of an unknown and un- 
marked stranger. “ Holy Elias!” he exclaimed, when he had 
recovered the first stunning effects of his surprise ; and then 
passing from his former suspicious and surly manner to the very 
extremity of obsequiousness, he cringed low to the artist, and 
besought him to enter his poor house, to bless. his miserable 
threshold by crossing it. 

“Vill you not taste a cup with the poor Jew, Zacharias 


138 KENILWORTH. 


Yoglan ?—Vill you Tokay ave ?—vill you Lachrymeze taste ?— 
vill you ”-—— 

“You offend in your proffers,” said Wayland ; “ ministerto 
me in what I require of you, and forbear further discourse.” 

The rebuked Israelite took his bunch of keys, and opening 
with circumspection a cabinet which seemed more strongly se- 
cured than the other cases of drugs and medicines amongst 
which it stood, he drew out a little secret drawer, having a glass 
lid, and containing a small portion of a black powder. This he 
offered to Wayland, his manner conveying the deepest de- 
votion toward him, though an avaricious and jealous expres- 
sion, which seemed to grudge every grain of which his customer 
was about to possess himself, disputed ground in his counte- 
nance with the obsequious deference which he desired it should 
exhibit. 

‘“‘ Have you scales ?” said Wayland. 

The Jew pointed to those who lay ready for common use in 
the shop, but he did so with a puzzled expression of doubt and 
fear, which did not escape the artist. 

“They must be other than these,” said Wayland, sternly ; 
“know you not that holy things lose their virtue if weighed in 
an unjust balance ?” 

The Jew hung his head, took from his steel-plated casket a 
pair of scales beautifully mounted, and said, as he adjusted them 
for the artist’s use,—‘‘ With these I do mine own experiment— 
one hair of the high-priest’ s beard would turn them.” 

“Tt suffices,” said the artist ; and weighed out two drachms 
for himself of the black powder, “which he very carefully folded 
up and put into his pouch with the other drugs. He then 
demanded the price of the Jew, who answered, shaking his head 
and bowing,— 

‘No price—no, nothing at all from such as you.u—But you 
will see the poor Jew again ? you will look into his laboratory, 
where, God help him, he hath dried himself to the substance of 
the withered gourd of Jonah the holy prophet—You vill ave pity 
on him, and show him one little step on the great road ? ” 

“Hush |” said Wayland, laying his finger mysteriously on 
his mouth, “it may be we shall meet again —thou hast already 
the Schahmajm, as thine own Rabbis call it—the general crea- 
tion; watch, therefore, and pray, for thou must attain the 
knowledge of Aichahest Elixir, Samech, ere I may commune 
further with thee.” Then returning with a slight nod the 
reverential congees of the Jew, he walked gravely up the lane, 
followed by his master, whose first observation on the scene he 


f 


KENILWORTH. 139 


had just witnessed was, that Wayland ought to have paid the 
man for his drug, whatever it was. 

“T pay him?” said the artist; “may the foul fiend pay me 
if I do !—Had it not been that I thought it might displease your 
worship, I would have had an ounce or two of gold out of him, 
in exchange for the same just weight of brick-dust.” 

‘“T advise you to practice no such knavery while waiting upon 
me,” said Tressilian. 

“Did I not say,” answered the artist, “ that for that reason 
alone IJ forbore him for the present ?—Knavery, call you it ?— 
why, yonder wretched skeleton hath wealth sufficient to pave 
the whole lane he lives in with dollars, and scarce miss them 
out of his own iron chest ; yet he goes mad after the philoso- 
pher’s stone—and besides, he would have cheated a poor serving- 
man, as he thought me at first, with trash that was not worth a 
penny—Match for match, quoth the devil to the collier; if his 
false medicine was worth my good crowns, my true brick-dust is 
as well worth his good gold.” 

‘It may be so for aught I know,” said Tressilian, “ in dealing 
amongst Jews and apothecaries ; but understand that to have 
such tricks of legerdemain practiced by one attending on me, 
diminishes my honor, and that I will not permit them. I trust 
thou hast made up thy purchases? ”’ 

“‘T have, sir,” replied Wayland, ‘and with these drugs will 
I, this very day, compound the true orvietan, that noble medicine 
which is so seldom found genuine and effective within these 
realms of Europe, for want of that most rare and precious drug 
which I got but now from Yoglan.” * 

“But why not have made all your purchases at one shop?” 
said his master ; we have lost nearly an hour in running from 
one pounder of simples to another.” 

“Content you, sir,” said Wayland. “ No man shall learn my 
secret ; and it would not be mine long, were I to buy all my 
materials from one chemist.” 

They now returned to their inn (the famous Bell-Savage), 
and while the Lord Sussex’s servant prepared the horses for 
their journey, Wayland, obtaining from the cook the service of 
a mortar, shut himself up in a private chamber, where he 
mixed, pounded, and amalgamated the drugs which he had 
bought, each in its own proportion, with a readiness and address 


* Orvietan, or Venice treacle, as if was sometimes called, was understood 
to be a sovereign remedy against poison ; and the reader must be contented, 
for the time he peruses these pages, to hold the same opinion which was 
once universally received by the learned as wellas the vulgar, 


ro KENILWORTH. 


that plainly showed him well practiced in all the manual opera 
tions of pharmacy. 

‘By the time Wayland’s electuary was prepared the horses 
were ready, and a short hour’s riding brought them to the 
present habitation of Lord Sussex, an ancient house, called 
Say’s Court,* near Deptford, which had long pertained to a 
family of that name, but had, for upward of a century, been 
possessed by the ancient and honorable family of Evelyn, 
The present representative of that ancient house took a deep 
interest in the Earl of Sussex, and had willingly accommodated 
both him and his numerous retinue in his hospitable mansion. 
Say’s Court was afterward the residence of the celebrated Mr. 
Evelyn, whose Sz/va is still the manual of British planters, 
and whose life, manners, and principles, as illustrated in his 
Memoirs, ought equally to be the manual of English gentlemen.T 


CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. 


This is rare news thou tell’st me, my good fellow 4 
There are two bulls fierce battling on the green 
For one fair heifer-—if the one goes down, 
The dale will be more peaceful, and the herd, 
Which have small interest in their brulziement, 
May pasture there in peace. 

OLD PLAY. 


Say’s CourT was watched like a beleaguered fort; and sa 
high rose the suspicions of the time, that Tressilian and his 
attendants were stopped and questioned repeatedly by sentinels, 
both on foot and horseback, as they approached the abode of 
the sick Earl. In truth, the high rank which Sussex held in 
Queen Elizabeth’s favor, and his known and avowed rivalry of 
the Earl of Leicester, caused the utmost importance to be at- 
tached to his welfare, for, at «he period we treat of, all mer. 
doubted whether he or the Earl of Leicester might ultimately 
have the higher rank in her regard. 

Elizabeth, like many of her sex, was fond of governing by 
factions, so as to balance two opposing interests, and reserve 


* [The Court has now entirely disappeared, and its site occupied bya 
workhouse. ] 

_t Evelyn’s name has also become familiar through his AZemoirs, con- 
prising a Diary from 1641 to 1705, and a Selection of Familiar Letters, pubs 
lished from his MSS., discovered at Say’s Court in 1818,] 


KENILWORTH. 141 


in her own hand the power of making either predomirate, as 
the interest of the state, or perhaps as her own female caprice 
(for to that foible even she was not superior), might finally de- 
termine. To finesse—to hold the cards—to oppose one interest 
to another—to bridle him who thought himself highest in her 
esteem, by the fears he must entertain of another equally 
trusted, if not equally beloved, were arts which she used 
throughout her reign, and which enabled her, though frequently 
giving way to the weakness of favoritism, to prevent most of 
its evil effects on her kingdom and government. 

The two nobles who at present stood as rivals in her favor, 
possessed very different pretensions to share it; yet it might 
be in general said, that the Earl of Sussex had been most ser- 
viceable to the Queen, while Leicester was most dear to the 
woman. Sussex was, according to the phrase of the times, a 
martialist ; had done good service in Ireland and in Scotland, 
and especially in the great northern rebellion in 1569, which 
was quelled, in a great measure, by his military talents. He 
was, therefore, naturally surrounded and looked up to by those 
who wished to make arms their road to distinction. The Earl 
of Sussex, moreover, was of more ancient and honorable 
descent than his rival, uniting in his person the representation 
of the Fitz-Walters, as well as of the Ratcliffes, while the scut- 
cheon of Leicester was stained by the degradation of his grand- 
father, the oppressive minister of Henry VII., and scarce im- 
proved by that of his father, the unhappy Dudley, Duke of 
Northumberland, executed on ‘Tower Hill, August 22, 1553. 
But in person, features, and address, weapons so formidable in 
the court of a female sovereign, Leicester had advantages more > 
than sufficient to counterbalance the military service, high 
blood, and frank bearing of the Earl of Sussex; and he bore 
in the eye of the court an'd kingdom, the higher share in Eliza- 
beth’s favor, though (for such was her uniform policy) by no 
means so decidedly expressed as to warrant him against the 
final preponderance of his rival’s pretensions. The illness of 
Sussex, therefore, happened so opportunely for Leicester, as 
to give rise to strange surmises among the public; while the 
followers of the one Earl were filled with the deepest apprehen- 
sions, and those of the other with the highest hopes of its prob- 
able issue. Meanwhile,—for in that old time men never forgot 
the probability that the matter might be determined by length 
of sword,—the retainers of each noble flocked around their 
patron, appeared well armed in the vicinity of the court itself, 
and disturbed the ear of the sovereign by their frequent and 
alarming debates, held even within the precincts of her palace, 


142 KENILWORTH. 


This preliminary statement is necessary, to render what follows 
intelligible to the reader.* 

On Tressilian’s arrival at Say’s Court, he found the place 
filled with the retainers of the Earl of Sussex, and of the gen- 
tlemen who came to attend their patron in his illness. Arms 
were in every hand, and a deep gloom on every countenance, 
as if they had apprehended an immediate and violent assault 
from the opposite faction. In the hall, however, to which 
Tressilian was ushered by one of the Earl’s attendants, while 
another went to inform Sussex of his arrival, he found only two 
gentlemen in waiting. There was a remarkable contrast in 
their dress, appearance, and manners. The attire of the elderly 
gentleman, a person as it seemed of quality, and in the prime 
of life, was very plain and soldier-like, his stature low, his limbs 
stout, his bearing ungraceful, and his features of that kind 
which express sound common sense, without a grain of vivacity 
or imagination. ‘The younger, who seemed about twenty or 
upward, was clad in the gayest habit used by persons of qual- 
ity at the period, wearing a crimson velvet cloak richly orna- 
mented with lace and embroidery, with a bonnet of the same, 
encircled with a gold chain turned three times round it, and 
secured by a medal. His hair was adjusted very nearly like 
that of some fine gentlemen of our own time, that is, it was 
combed upward and made to stand as it were on end; and in 
his ears he wore a pair of silver ear-rings, having each a pearl 
of considerable size. ‘The countenance of this youth, besides 
being regularly handsome, and accompanied by a fine person, 
was animated and striking in a degree that seemed to speak at 
once the firmness of a decided, and the fire of an enterprising 
character, the power of reflection and the promptitude of de- 
termination. 

Both these gentlemen reclined nedrly in the same posture 
on benches near each other; but each seemed engaged in his 
own meditations, looked straight upon the wall which was op- 
posite to them without speaking to his companion. ‘The looks 
of the elder were of that sort which convinced the beholder, 
that, in looking on the wall, he saw no more than the side of 
an old hall hung around with cloaks, antlers, bucklers, old 
pieces of armor, partisans, and the similar articles which were 
usually the furniture of such a place. The look of the younger 


* Naunton gives us numerous and curious particulars of the jealous 
struggle which took place between Ratcliffe, Earl of Sussex, and the rising 
favorite Leicester. The former, when on his death-bed, predicted to his 
followers, that, after his death, the gipsy (so he called Leicester, from his 
dark complexion) would prove too many for them. 


KENILWORTH, 143 


gallant had in it something imaginative ; he was sunk in reve- 
rie, and it seemed as if the empty space of air betwixt him and 
the wall, were the stage of a theatre on which his fancy was 
mustering his own dramatis persone, and treated him with 
sights far different from those which his awakened and earthly 
vision could have offered. 

At the entrance of Tressilian both started from their 
musing, and bade him welcome; the younger, in particular, 
with great appearance of animation and cordiality. 

“Thou art welcome, Tressilian,” said the youth ; “thy phi- 
losophy stole thee from us when this household had objects of 
ambition to offer—it is an honest philosophy, since it returns 
thee to us when there are only dangers to be shared.” 

“Is my lord, then, so dangerously indisposed ?” said Tres- 
silian. 

““We fear the very worst,” answered the elder gentleman, 
“and by the worst practice.” 

“ Fie,” replied Tressilian, “ my Lord of Leicester is honor- 
able.” 

“What doth he with such attendants, then, as he hath about 
him?” said the younger gallant. The man who raises the 
devil may be honest, but he is answerable for the mischief 
which the fiend does, for all that.” 

“ And is this all that are of you, my mates,” said Tressilian, 
“that are about my lord in his utmost straits?” 

“No, no,” replied the elder gentleman, “there are Tracy, 
Markham, and several more; but we keep watch here by two 
at once, and some are weary and are sleeping in the gallery 
above.” 

“And some,” said the young man, “are gone down to the 
Dock yonder at Deptford, to look out such a hulk as they may 
purchase by clubbing their broken fortunes; and so soon as all 
is over, we will lay our noble lord in a noble green grave, have 
a blow at those who have hurried him thither, if opportunity 
suits, and then sail for the Indies, with. heavy hearts and light 
purses.” 

“Tt may be,” said Tressilian, “that I will embrace the same 
purpose, so soon as I have settled some business at court.” 

“Thou business at court!” they both exclaimed at once; 
*fand thou make the Indian voyage!” 

“Why, Tressilian,” said the younger man, “art thou not 
wedded, and beyond these flaws of fortune, that drive folks 
out to sea when their bark bears fairest fox the haven ?—-What 
has become of the lovely Indamira that was to match my Am 
oret for truth and beauty?” 


144 KENILWORTH. 


“Speak not of her!” said Tressilian averting his face. 

‘Ay, stands it so with you?”’ said the youth, taking his hand 
very affectionately ; then, fear not I will again touch the green 
wound—But it is strange as well as sad news. Are none of out 
fair and merry fellowship to escape shipwreck of fortune and 
happiness in this sudden tempest? I had hoped thou wert in 
harbor, at least, my dear Edmund—But truly, says another 
dear friend of thy name, 


‘What man that sees the ever whirling wheel 
Of Chance, the which all mortal things doth sway; 
But that thereby doth find and plainly feel, 
Flow Mutability in them doth play 
Her cruel sports to many men’s decay.’ ” 


The elder gentleman had risen from his bench, and was 
pacing the hall with some impatience, while the youth, with 
much earnestness and feeling, recited these lines. When he 
had done, the other wrapped himself in his cloak, and again 
stretched himself down, saying, “ I marvel, Tressilian, you will _ 
feed the lad in this silly humor. If there were aught to draw 
a judgment upon a virtuous and honorable household like my 
lord’s, renounce me if I think not it were this piping, whining, 
childish trick of poetry, that came among us with Master Wal- 
ter Wittypate here and his comrades, twisting into all manner 
of uncouth and incomprehensible forms of speech the honest 
plain English phrase which God gave us to express our mean- 
ing withal.” 

‘“‘Blount believes,” said his comrade laughing, “the devil 
woo'd Eve in rhyme, and that the mystic meaning of the Tree 
of Knowledge refers solely to the art of clashing rhymes and 
meting out hexameters.” * 

At this moment the Earl’s chamberlain entered, and _ in- 
formed Tressilian that his lord required to speak with him. 

He found Lord Sussex dressed, but unbraced and lying on 
his couch, and was shocked at the alteration disease had made 
in his person. The Earl received him with the most friendly 
cordiality, and inquired into the state of his courtship. Tres- 
silian evaded his inquiries for a moment, and turning his dis 
course on the Earl’s own health, he discovered, to his surprise, 
that the symptoms of his disorder corresponded minutely with 
those which Wayland had predicted concerning it. He hest 
tated not, therefore, to communicate to Sussex the whole 
history of his attendant, and the pretensions he set up to cure 


* Note D, Sir Walter Raleigh, 


KENILWORTH. 146 


the disorder under which he labored. The Earl listened with 
incredulous attention until the name of Demetrius was men- 
tioned, and then suddenly called to his secretary to bring him a 
certain casket which contained papers of importance. ‘Take 
out from thence,” he said, “ the declaration of the rascal cook 
whom he had under examination, and look heedfully if the 
name of Demetrius be not there mentioned.” 

The secretary turned to the passage at once, and read, 
* And said declarant being examined, saith, That he remem- 
bers having made the sauce to the said sturgeon-fish, after eat- 
ing of which the said noble Lord was taken ill; and he put the 
usual ingredients and condiments therein, namely ”—— 

“Pass over his trash,” said the Earl, ‘‘and see whether he 
had not been supplied with his materials by a herbalist called 
Demetrius.”’ 

“It is even so,” answered the secretary. ‘“‘And he adds, 
he has not since seen the said Demetrius.” 

“This accords with thy fcllow’s story, Tressilian,” said the 
Earl; ‘call him hither.” 

On being summoned to the Earl’s presence, Wayland Smith 
told his former tale with firmness and consisteney. 

“It may be,” said the Earl, “thou art sent by those who 
have begun this work, to end it for them; but bethink, if I 
miscarry under thy medicine, it may go hard with thee.” 

“That were severe measure,” said Wayland, ‘since the 
issue of medicine, and the end of life, are in God’s disposal. 
But .I will stand the risk. I have not lived so long under 
ground to be afraid of a grave.” 

“Nay, if thou be’st so confident,” said the Earl of Sussex, 
*‘T will take the risk too, for the learned can do nothing for me. 
Tell me how this medicine is to be taken?” 

“ That will I do presently,” said Wayland: “ but allow me 
to condition that, since I incur all the risk of this treatment, 
no other physician shall be permitted to interfere with it.” 

“That is but fair,’ replied the Earl; ‘and now prepare 
your drug.” 

While Wayland obeyed the Earl’s commands, his servants, 
by the artist’s direction, undressed their master, and placed him 
in bed. 

“T warn you,” he said, “ that the first operation of this medi- 
cine will be to produce a heavy sleep, during which time the 
chamber must be kept undisturbed; as the consequences may 
otherwise be fatal. I myself will watch by the Earl, with any 
of the gentlemen of his chamber.” 


146 KENILWORTH. 


“ Let all leave the room save Stanley and this good fellow,” 
said the Earl. 

“‘ And saving me also,” said Tressilian. ‘‘ I too am deeply 
interested in the effects of this potion.” 

“ Be it so, good friend,” said the Earl; “ and now for out 
experiment ; but first call my secretary and chamberlain.” 

** Bear witness,” he continued, when these officers arrived, 
“bear witness for me, gentlemen, that our honorable friend 
Tressilian is in no way responsible for the effects which this 
medicine may produce upon me, the taking it being my own 
free action and choice, in regard I believe it to be a remedy 
which God has furnished me by tnexpected means, to recover 
me of my present malady. Commend me to my noble and 
princely Mistress: and say that I live and die her true servant, 
and wish to all about her throne the same singleness of heart 
and will to serve her, with more ability to do so than hath been 
assigned to poor Thomas Ratcliffe.” 

He then folded his hands, and seemed for a second or two 
absorbed in mental devotion, then took the potion in his hand, 
and pausing, regarded Wayland with a look that seemed de- 
signed to penetrate his very soul, but which caused no anxiety 
or hesitation in the countenance or manner of the artist. 

“‘ Here is nothing to be feared,” said Sussex to Tressilian ; 
and swallowed the medicine without further hesitation. 

‘IT am now to pray your lordship,” said Wayland, “ to dis- 
pose yourself to rest as commodiously as you can ; and of you, 
gentlemen, to remain as still and mute as if you waited at your 
mother’s deathbed.” 

The chamberlain and secretary then withdrew, giving orders 
that all doors be bolted, and all noise in the house strictly 
prohibited. Several gentlemen were voluntary watchers in the 
hall, but none remained in the chamber of the sick Earl, save 
his groom of the chamber Stanley, the artist, and Tressilian.— 
Wayland Smith’s predictions were speedily accomplished, and 
a sleep fell upon the Earl, so deep and sound, ‘that they who 
watched his bedside began to fear that, in his weakened state, 
he might pass away without awakening from his lethargy. 
Wayland Smith himself appeared anxious, and felt the temples 
of the Earl slightly from time to time, attending particularly 
to the state of respiration, which was full and deep, but at the 
same time easy and uninterrupted. 


KENILWORTH. 147 


CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. 


You loggerheaded and unpolish’d grooms, 
What, no attendance, no regard, no duty ? 
Where is the foolish knave I sent before ? 
TAMING OF THE SHREW. 


THERE is no period at which men look worse in the eyes of 
each other, or feel more uncomfortable, than when the first 
dawn of daylight finds them watchers. Even a beauty of the 
first order, after the vigils of a ball are interrupted by -the 
dawn, would do wisely to withdraw herself from the gaze of 
her fondest and most partial admirers. Such was the pale, 
inauspicious, and ungrateful light, which began to beam upon 
those who kept watch all night in the hall at Say’s Court, and 
which mingled its cold, pale, blue diffusion with the red, yellow, 
and smoky beams of expiring lamps and torches. The young 
gallant, whom we noticed in our last chapter, had left the room 
for a few minutes, to learn the cause of a knocking at the out- 
ward gate, and on his return, was so struck with the forlorn 
and ghastly aspects of his companions of the watch, that he 
exclaimed, “ Pity of my heart, my masters, how like owls you 
look! Methinks, when the sun rises, I shall see you flutter off 
with your eyes dazzled, to stick yourselves into the next ivy-tod 
or ruined steeple.” 

“ Hold thy peace, thou gibing fool,” said Blount ; hold thy 
peace. Is thisa time for jeering, when the manhood of England 
is perchance dying within a wall’s breadth of thee ? ” 

“‘ There thou liest,” replied the gallant 

“* How, lie !” exclaimed Blount, starting up, “ lie, and to 
me?” 

“Why, so thou didst, thou peevish fool,” answered the 
youth ; “ thou didst lie on that bench even now, didst thou 
not? But art thou not a hasty coxcomb, to pick up a wry 
word so wrathfully ? Nevertheless, loving and honoring my 
lord as truly as thou, or any one, I do say, that should Heaven 
take him from us, all England’s manhood dies not with him.” 

“ Ay,” replied Blount, “a good portion will survive with 
thee, doubtless.” 

“¢ And a good portion with thyself, Blount, and with stout 
Markham here, and Tracy, and all of us. But [ am sure he 
will best employ the talent Heaven has given to us all.” 


148 KENILWORTH. 


“As how, I prithee?” said Blount, “ tell us your mystery of 
multiplying.” 

‘“Why, sirs,” answered the youth, “ye are like the goodly 
land, which bears no crop because it is not quickened by 
manure ; but I have that rising spirit in me, which will make 
my poor faculties labor to keep pace with it. My ambition will 
keep my brain at work, I warrant thee.” 

“*T pray to God it does not drive thee mad,” said Blount ; 
“for my part, if we lose our noble lord, I bid adieu to the court 
and to the camp both. JI have five hundred foul acres in Nor- 
folk, and thither will I, and change the court pantoufle for the 
country hobnail.”’ 

“OQ base transmutation !” exclaimed his antagonist ; “thou 
hast already got the true rustic slouch—thy shoulders stoop, as 
if thine hands were at the stilts of the plough, and thou hast a 
kind of earthy smell about thee, instead of being perfumed 
with essence, as a gallant and courtier should. On my soul 
thou hast stolen out to roll thyself on a hay mow! Thy only 
excuse will be to swear by thy hilts, that the farmer had a fair 
daughter.” 

“‘T pray thee, Walter,” said another of the company, “ cease 
thy raillery, which suits neither time or place, and tell us who 
was at the gate just now.” 

‘“‘ Doctor Masters, physician to her Grace in ordinary, sent 
by her special orders to inquire after the Earl’s health,” answered 
Walter. 

““Ha! what!” exclaimed Tracy, “ that was no slight mark 
of favor; if the Earl can but come through, he will match with 
Leicester yet: Is Masters with my lord at present?” 

‘“‘ Nay,” replied Walter, ‘he is half-way back to Greenwich 
by this time, and in high dudgeon.” 

“‘ Thou didst not refuse him admittance ?”’ exclaimed Tracy. 

“‘ Thou wert not surely so mad?” ejaculated Blount. 

“T refused him admittance as flatly, Blount, as you would 
refuse a penny to a blind beggar; as obstinately, Tracy, as thou 
didst ever deny access to a dun.” gO} 

‘‘Why, in the fiend’s name, didst thou trust him to go to 
the gate?” said Blount to Tracy. 

“Tt suited his years better than mine,” answered Tracy; 
“but he has undone us all now thoroughly. My lord may live 
or die, he will never have a look of favor from her Majesty 
again.” 

“Nor the means of making fortunes for his followers,” said 
the young gallant, smiling contemptuously ;—“ there lies the 
sore point, that will brook no handling. My good sirs, 1 


KENILWORTH. 149 


sounded my lamentations over my lord somewhat less loudly 
than some of you; but when the point comes of doing him 
service, I wiJl yield to none of you. Had this learned leech 
entered, think’st thou not there had been such a coil betwixt 
him and Tressilian’s mediciner, that not the sleeper only, but 
the very dead might have awakened? I know what larum be- 
longs to the discord of doctors.” 

“And who is to take the blame of opposing the Queen’s 
orders?” said Tracy; “for undeniably, Doctor Masters came 
with her Grace’s positive commands to cure the Earl.” 

“I who have done the wrong, will bear the blame,” said 
Walter. 

‘““Thus, then, off fly the dreams of court favor thou hast 
nourished,” said Blount; ‘and despite all thy boasted art and 
ambition, Devonshire will see thee shine a true younger 
brother, fit to sit low at the board, carve turn about with the 
chaplain, look that the hounds be fed, and see the squire’s 
girths drawn when he goes a hunting.” 

“Not so,” said the young man, coloring, “ not while Ireland 
and the Netherlands have wars, and not while the sea hath 
pathless waves. The rich west hath lands undreamed of, and 
Britain contains bold hearts to venture on the quest of. them. 
—Adieu for aspace, my masters. I go to walk in the court and 
look to the sentinels.” 

‘The lad hath quicksilver in his veins, that is certain,” said 
Blount, looking at Markham. 

“He hath that both in brain and blood,” said Markham, 
“which may either make or mar him. But, in closing the door 
against Masters, he hath done a daring and loving piece of 
service; for Tressilian’s fellow hath ever averred, that to wake 
the Earl were death,and Masters would wake the Seven Sleep- 
ers themselves, if he thought they slept not by the regular 
ordinance of medicine.” 

Morning was well advanced, when Tressilian, fatigued and 
over-watched, came down to the hall with the joyful intelli- 
gence, that the Earl had awakened of himself, that he found 
his internal complaints much mitigated, and spoke with a 
cheerfulness, and looked round with a vivacity, which of them- 
selves showed a material and favorable change had taken 
place. ‘Tressilian at the same time commanded the attend. 
ance of one or two of his followers, to report what had. passed 
during the night, and to relieve the watchers in the Earl’s 
chamber. 

When the message of the Queen was communicated to the 
Earl of Sussex, he at first smiled at the repulse which the physi- 


150 KENILWORTH. 


cian had received from his zealous young follower, but instantly 
recollecting himself, he commanded Blount, his master of the 
horse, instantly to take boat, and go down the river to the 
Palace of Greenwich, taking young Walter and Tracy with 
him, and make a suitable compliment, expressing his grate- 
ful thanks to his Sovereign, and mentioning the cause why he 
had not been enabled to profit by the assistance of the wise and 
learned Doctor Masters. 

“A plague on it,” said Blount, as he descended the stairs, 
“had he sent me with a cartel to Leicester, I think I’ should 
have done his errand indifferently well. But to go to our 
gracious Sovereign, before whom all words must be lackered 
over either with gilding or with sugar, is such a confectionary 
matter as clean baffles my poor old” English brain.—come with 
me, Tracy, and come you too, Master Walter Wittypate, that 
art the cause of our having all this ado. - Let us see if thy neat 
brain, that frames so many flashy fireworks, can help out a 
plain fellow at need with some of thy shrewd devices.” 

““ Never fear, never fear,” exclaimed the youth, “it is I will 
help you through—let me but fetch my cloak.” 

‘““Why, thou hast it on thy shoulders,” said Blount,—“ the 
lad is mazed.” 

“No, this is Tracy’s old mantle,” answered Walter ; “I go 
not with thee to court unless as a gentleman should.” 

“Why,” said Blount, “thy braveries are like to dazzle the 
eyes of some poor groom or porter.” 

‘“‘T know that,” said the youth ; but I am resolved I will 
have my own cloak, ay, and brush my doublet to boot, ere I 
stir forth with you.’ 

“Well, well,” said Blount, ‘here is a coil about a doublet 
and a cloak—set thyself ready, a God’s name !” 

They were soon launched on the princely bosom of the broad 
Thames, upon which the sun now shone forth in all its 
splendor. 

“There are two things scarce matched in the universe,’ sad 
Walter to Blount2“ the sun in heaven, and the Thames on: 
the earth.” 

“The one will light us to Greenwich well enough,” said 
Blount, ‘‘ and- the other would take us there a little faster, if it 
were ebb tide.” 

“And this is all thoti think’st—all thou carest—all thou 
deem’st the use of the King of Elements, and the King of 
Rivers, to guide three such poor caitiffs, as thyself, and me, and 
Tracy, upon an idle journey of courtly ceremony !” 

“Jt isno errand of my seeking, faith,” replied Blount, “and 


“- 
# 


KENILWORTH. 184 


I could excuse both the sun and the Thames the trouble of 
carrying me where I have no great mind to go, and where I 
expect but dog’s wages for my trouble—and by my honor,” he 
added, looking out from the head of the boat, “Sit seems to me 
as if our message were a sort of labor in vain; for see, the 
Queen’s barge lies at the stairs, as if her Majesty were about to 
take water.” . 

{twas even so. The royal barge, manned with the Queen’s 
watermen, richly attired in the regal liveries, and having the 
banner of England displayed, did indeed lie at the great stairs 
which ascended from the river, and along with it two or three 
other boats for transporting such part of her retinue as were 
not inimmediate attendance on the royal person. The yeomen 
of'the guard, the tallest and most handsome men whom Eng- 
land could produce, guarded with their halberds the passage 
from the palace-gate ‘to the river-side, and all seemed in readi- 
ness for the Queen’ s coming forth, although the day was yet so 
early. 

' By my faith, this bodes us no good,” said Blount ; ‘‘it 
must be some perilous cause puts her Grace in motion thus 
untimeously. By my counsel, we were best put back « again, 
and tell.the Farl what we have seen.’ 

“Tellthe Earl what we have seen !” said Walter ; “ why, 
what have we seen but a boat, and men with scarlet jerkins, 
and halberds in their hands ?”’ Let us do his errand, and tell 
him what. the Queen says in reply.” 

So saying, he caused the boat to be pulled toward a landing 
place at.some distance from the principal one, which it would 
not, at that moment, have been thought respectful to approach, 
and jumped on shore, followed, though with. reluctance, by his 
cautious and timid companions, | As they approached the gate 
of the palace, one of the sergeant porters told them they could 
not at present enter, as her Majesty was in the act of coming 
forth. The gentlemen used the name of the Earl of Sussex; 
but it proved no charm to subdue the officer, who alleged in 
reply, that it was as much as his post was worth, to disobey in 
the least tittle the commands which he had received. 

** Nay, I told you as much before,” said Blount ; “do, I pray 
you, my dear Walter, let us.take boat and return,’ 

“Not till I see the Queen come forth,” naa the youth, 
composedly. 
“Thou art mad, stark mad, by the mass !”’ Be ceceke: Blount. 

* And thou,” said Walter, “ art turned coward of the sudden. 
I have seen thee face half-a-score of shag-headed Irish kernes to 


152 KENILWORTH. 


thy own share of them, and now thou wouldst blink and go 
back to shun the frown of a fair lady !”— ti 

At this moment the gates opened, and ushers began to issue 
forth in array, preceded and flanked by the band of Gentlemen 
Pensioners. After this, amid a crowd of lords and ladies, yet 
so disposed around her that she could see and be seen on all 
sides, came Elizabeth herself, then in the prime of womanhood, 
and in the full glow of what in a Sovereign was called beauty, 
and who would in the lowest rank of life have been truly 
judged a noble figure, joined to a stilking and commanding 
physiognomy. She leant on the arm of Lord Hunsdon, whose 
relation to her by her mother’s side often procured him such 
distinguished marks of Elizabeth’s intimacy. 

The young cavalier we have:so often mentioned had prob- 
ably never yet approached so near the person of his Sovereign, 
and he pressed forward as far as the line of warders permitted, 
in order to avail himself of the present opportunity. His com- 
panion, on the contrary, cursing his imprudence, kept pulling 
him backward, till Walter shook him off impatiently, and 
letting his rich cloak drop carelessly from one shoulder; a 
natural action, which served, however, to display to the best 
advantage his well-proportioned person. Unbonneting at the 
same time, he fixed his eager gaze on the Queen’s approach, 
with a mixture of respectful curiosity, and modesty yet ardent 
admiration, which suited so well with his fine features, that the 
warders, struck with his rich attire and noble countenance, 
suffered him to approach the ground over which the Queen was 
to pass, somewhat closer than was permitted to ordinary spec 
tators. Thus the adventurous youth stood full in Elizabeth’s 
eye—an eye never indifferent to the admiration which she 
deservedly excited among her subjects, or to the fair propor- 
tions of external form which chanced to distinguish any of her 
courtiers. Accordingly, she fixed her keen glance on the youth, 
as she approached the place where he stood, with a look in 
which surprise at his boldness seemed to be unmingled with 
resentment, while a trifling accident happened which attracted 
her attention toward him yet more strongly. The night had 
been rainy, and just where the young gentleman stood, a small 
quantity of mud interrupted the Queen’s passage. As she 
hesitated to pass on, the gallant, throwing his cloak from his 
shoulders, laid it on the miry spot, so as to ensure her stepping 
over it dryshod. Elizabeth looked at the young man, who 
accompanied this act of devoted courtesy with a profound 
reverence and a blush that overspread his whole countenance. 
The Queen was confused, and blushed in her turn, nodded het 


KENILWORTH. 153 


head, hastily passed on, and embarked in her barge without 
saying a word. 

“* Come along, Sir Coxcomb,” said Blount; “‘ your gay cloak 
will need the brush’ to-day, I wot. Nay, if you had meant to 
make a foot-cloth of your mantle, better have kept Tracy’s old 
drap-de-bure, which despises all colors.” 

“This cloak,” said the youth, taking it up and folding 1t, 
* shall never be brushed while in my possession.” 

“And that will not be long, if you learn not at little more 
economy—we shall have you in cuerpo soon, as the Spaniard 
says.” 

” Their discourse was here interrupted by one of the band of 
Pensioners. 

“I was sent,” said he, after looking at them attentively, ‘to 
a gentleman who hath no cloak, or a muddy one.—You, sir, I 
think,” addressing the younger cavalier, “ are the man ; you will 
please to follow me.” 

“* He isin attendance on me,”’ said Blount, ‘‘ on me, the noble 
Earl of Sussex’s master of horse.” 

“] have nothing to say to that,” answered the messenger ; 
“my orders are directly from her Majesty, and concern this 
gentleman only.” 

So saying, he walked away, followed by Walter, leaving the 
others behind, Blount’s eyes almost starting from his head with 
the excess of his astonishment. At length he gave vent to it 
in an exclamation—“ Who the good jere would have thought 
this! ”’ And shaking his head with a mysterious air, he walked 
to his own boat, embarked, and returned to Deptford. 

The young cavalier was, in the meanwhile, guided to the 
water-side by the Pensioner, who showed him considerable 
respect ; a circumstance which, to persons in his situation, may 
be considered as an augury of no small consequence. He 
ushered him into one of the wherries which lay ready to attend 
the Queen’s barge, which was already proceeding up the river, 
with the advantage of that flood-tide, of which, in the course of 
their descent, Blount had complained to his associates. 

The two rowers used their oars with such expedition at the 
signal of the Gentleman Pensioner, that they very soon brought 
their little skiff under the stern of the Queen’s boat, where she 
sate beneath an awning, attended by two or three ladies, and 
the nobles of her household. She looked more than once at the 
wherry in which the young adventurer was seated, spoke to 
those around her, and seemed to laugh. At length one of the 
attendants, by the Queen’s order apparently, made a sign for 
the wherry to come alongside, and the young man was desired 


164 KENILWORTH. 


to step from his own skiff into the Queen’s barge, which he 
performed with graceful agility at the fore part “of the boat, 
and was brought. aft to the Queen’s presence, the wherry at 
the same time dropping into the rear, The youth underwent 
the gaze of majesty, not the less gracefully that his self-posses- 
sion was mingled with embarrassment. ‘The muddied cloak 
still hung upon his arm, and formed the natural topic with which 
the Queen introduced the conversation. 

“You have this day spoiled a gay mantle in our service, 
young man. We thank you for your service, though the manner 
of offering it was unusual, and something bold.” ; 

“Tn a sovereign’s need, ” answered the youth, “it is each 
liegeman’s duty to be bold.’ 

‘“‘God’s pity! that was well said, my lord,” said abe Queen, 
turning to agrave person who sate by her, and answered with 
a grave inclination of the head, and something of a mumbled 
assent. ‘“‘ Well, young man, your gallantry shall not go unre- 
warded. Go to the wardrobe keeper, and he shall have orders 
to supply the suit which ae have cast away in our service. 
Thou shalt have a suit, and that of the newest cut, I promise 
thee, on the word of a princess.’ 

Q May it please your grace,” said Walter, hesitating, “ it is 
not for so humble a servant of your Majesty to measure out 
your bounties; but if it became me to choose ”’ 

“Thou wouldst have gold, I warrant me,’ said the Queen, 
interrupting him; “fie, young man !'I take shame to say, that, 
in our capital, such and so various are the means of thriftless 
folly, that to give gold to youth is giving fuel.to fire, and: fur- 
nishing them with the means of self-destruction. If I live and 
reign, these means of unehristian excess shall be abridged. Yet 
thou mayest be poor,” she added, “or thy parents: may be—It 
shall be gold, if thou wilt, but thou shalt answer to me for the 
use on’t.’ 

Waiter waited patiently until the Queen had ate ant then 
modestly assured her, that gold was still less in his wish than 
the raiment her Majesty had before offered. 

‘“ How, boy!” said the Queen, “neither gold nor garment ? 
What is it thou wouldst have of me then 2.” 

“Only permission, madam—if it is not asking too high an 
honor-—permission to wear the cloak which did you this aruing 
service.’ 

“ Permission to wear thine own cloak, thou silly boy ?”’ ae 
the Queen. 

“Tt is no longer mine,” said Walter ; “ when your Majesty’s 


KENILWORTH. Iss 


foot touched it, it became a fit mantle for a prince, but far too 
rich a one for its former owner.” 

The Queen again blushed; and endeavored to cover, by 
laughing, a slight degree of not unpleasing surprise and con- 
fusion. 

“Heard you ever the like, my lords? The youth’s head 
is turned with reading romances—I must know. something 
of him, that I may send him safe to his friends—What art 
thou? ” 

“A gentleman of the household of the Earl of Sussex, so 
please your Grace, sent hither with his master of Horse, upon 
a message to your Majesty.” 

In a moment the gracious expression which Elizabeth’s face 
had hitherto maintained, gave way to an expression of haughti- 
ness ancl severity. 

““My Lord of Sussex,’ she said, “has taught us how to 
regard his messages, by the value he places upon ours. We 
sent but this morning the physician in ordinary of our chamber, 
and that at no usual time, understanding his lordship’s illness 
to be more dangerous than we had before apprehended. There 
is at no court in Europe a man more skilled in this holy and 
most useful science than Doctor Masters, and he came from 
Us to our subject. Nevertheless, he found the gate of Say’s 
Court befended by men with culverins, as if it had been on the 
Borders of Scotland not in the vicinity of our court; and when ~ 
he demanded admittance in our name, it was stubbornly refused. 
For this slight of a kindness, which had but too much of conde- 
scension in it, we will receive, at present at least, no excuse ; 
and some such we suppose to have been the purport of my 
Lord of Sussex’s message.” 

This was uttered in a tone, and with a gesture, which made 
Lord Sussex’s friends who were within hearing tremble. He 
to whom the speech was addressed, however, trembled not; 
but with great deference and humility, as soon as_ the Queen’s 
passion gave him an opportunity, he replied :—‘ So please your 
most gracious Majesty, 1 was charged with no apology from the 
Earl of Sussex.” 

“‘ With what were you then charged, sir? ”’ said the Queen, 
with the impetuosity which, amid noble qualities, strongly 
marked her character; “ was it with a justification ?—or, God’s 
death, with a defiance ?”’ 

“Madam,” said the young man, “my Lord of Sussex knew 
the offence approached toward treason, and could think of | 
nothing save of securing the offender, and placing him in your 
Majesty’s hands, and at your mercy, The noble Earl was fast 


156 KENILWORTH. 


asleep when your most gracious message reached him, a po- 
tion having been administered to that purpose by his physician ; 
and his Lordship knew not of the ungracious repulse your 
Majesty’s royal and most comfortable message had received, 
until after he awoke this morning.” 

* And which of his domestics, then in the name of Heaven, 
presumed to reject my message, without even admitting my own 
physician to the presence of him whom I sent him to attend?” 
said the Queen, much surprised. 

“The offender, madam, is before you,” replied Walter, bow- 
ing very low; “the full and sole blame is mine; and my lord 
has most justly sent me to abye the consequences of a fault, of 
which he is as innocent as a sleeping man’s dreams can be of 
a waking man’s actions.’ 

«What ! was it thou ?—thou thyself, that repelled my mes- 
senger and my physician from Say’s Court?” said the Queen. 
“What could occasion such boldness in one who seems de- 
voted—that is, whose exterior bearing shows devotion—to his 
Sovereign ?” 

“Madam,” said the youth,—who, notwithstanding an as- 
sumed appearance of severity, thought that he saw something 
in the Queen’s face that resembled not implacability,—“ we 
say in our country, that the physician is for the time the liege 
sovereign of his patient. Now, my noble master was then 
under dominion of a leech, by whose advice he had greatly 
profited, who had issued his commands that his patient should 
not that night be disturbed, on the very peril of his life.” 

“Thy master hath trusted some false varlet of an empiric,” 
said the Queen. 

“T know not, madam, but by the fact that he 1s now—this 
very morning—awakened much refreshed and strengthened, 
from the only sleep he hath had for many hours.” 

The nobles looked at each other, but more with the purpose 
to see what each thought of the news, than to exchange any 
remarks on what had happened. ‘The Queen answered hastily, 
and without affecting to disguise her satisfaction, “ By my word, 
I am glad he is better. But thou wert over bold to deny the 
access of my Doctor Masters. Know’st thou not that Holy 
Writ saith, ‘in the multitude of counsel there is safety !’” 

“Ay, madam,” said Walter, “‘ but I have heard learned men 
say, that the safety SpebeE of is for the physicians, not for the 
patient.” 

“ By my faith, philds thou hast pushed me home,” said the 
Queen, laughing ; 4 for my Hebrew learning does not come 


KENILWORTH. 57 


quite at a call_—How say you, my Lord of Lincoln? Hath the 
lad given a just interpretation of the text?” | 

“The word safety, my most gracious madam,” said’ the 
Bishop of Lincoln, “for so hath been translated, it may be 
somewhat hastily, the Hebrew word, being” 

“* My lord,” said the Queen, interrupting him, ‘ we said: we 
had forgotten our Hebrew.—But for: thee, young man, what is 
thy name and birth ?’ 

“Raleigh is my name, most gracious Queen, the youngest 
son of a large but honorable family of Devonshire.” 

“Raleigh?” said Elizabeth, after’ a moment’s recollection, 
“have we not heard of your service in Ireland?” » 

ST have been so fortunate as to do some. service there, 
madam,” replied Raleigh, “ searce: showever of consequence 
sufficient to reach your Grace’s ears?’ 

“They hear further than you: think of,” said the Queen, 
graciously, ‘“‘and have heard of a youth who defended a ford in 
Shannon against a whole band. of wild Irish rebels, until the — 
stream ran purple with their blood and his own,’ 

“Some blood I may have lost,” said the. youth, looking 
down, “‘ but it was where my best is due; and that is in your 
Majesty’s service.’ 

The Queen paused, and then said. Eeretily: “You are very 
young to have fought so well, and to speak so well. . But you 
must not escape your penance for turning back Masters—the 
poor man hath caught cold on the river; for our order reached 
him when he was just returned from certain visits in London, 
and he held it matter of loyalty and conscience. instantly to 
set forth again. So hark ye, Master Raleigh, see thou fail not, 
to wear thy muddy cloak, in token of penitence, till our pleas- 
ure be further known. And here,’ she added, giving hima 
jewel of gold, in the form of a chessman, “I give thee this to 
wear at the:collar.” 

“ Raleigh, to whom nature had taught intuitively, as it were, 
those courtly arts which many scarce acquire from long experi- 
ence, knelt, and, as he took from her hand. the jewel, kissed 
the fingers which gave it. He knew, perhaps, better than 
almost any of the courtiers who surrounded her, how to mix 
the devotion claimed by the Queen, with the gallantry due to 
her personal, beauty—and in this, his, first attempt. to ‘unite 
them, he succeeded so well, as-at. once to! gratify Elizabeth’s 
personal vanity, and her love of power.*! 

His master, the Earl of Sussex, had. the full advantage of 


* Note E, Court favor of Sir Walter Raleigh. 


ee: 


158 KENILWORTH. 


the satisfaction which Raleigh had afforded Elizabeth on then 
first interview. 

“My lords and ladies,” said the Queen, looking around to 
the retinue by whom she was attended, “methinks, since we 
are upon the river, it were well to renounce our present purpose 
of going to the city, and surprise this poor Earl of Sussex with 
a visit. He is ill, and suffering doubtless under the fear of our 
displeasure, from which he has been honestly cleared by the 
frank avowal of this malapert boy. What think ye? were it 
not an act of charity to give him such consolation as the thanks 
ofa Queen, much bound to him for his loyal service, may per- 
chance best minister ?” 

It may be readily supposed, that none to whom this speech 
was addressed, ventured to oppose its purport. 

“Your Grace,” said the Bishop of Lincoln, “is the breath 
of our nostrils.” ‘The men of war averred, that the face of the 
Sovereign was a whetstone to the soldier’s sword; while the 
men of state were not less of opinion, that the light of the 
Queen’s countenance was a lamp to the path of her council- 
ors; and the ladies agreed, with one voice, that no noble in 
England so well deserved the regard of England’s royal. Mis- 
tress as the Earl of Sussex—the Earl of Leicester’s right being 
reserved entire; so some of the more politic worded their 
assent—an exception to which Elizabeth paid no apparent at- 
tention. ‘The barge had, therefore, orders to deposit its royal 
freight at Deptford, at the nearest and most convenient point 
of communication with Say’s Court, in order that the Queen 
might satisfy her royal and maternal solicitude, by making per- 
sonal inquiries after the health of the Earl of Sussex. 

Raleigh, whose acute spirit foresaw and anticipated import- 
ant consequences from the most trifling events, hastened to ask 
the Queen’s permission to go in the skiff, and announce the 
royal visit to his master, ingeniously suggesting, that the joyful 
surprise might prove prejudicial to his health, since the richest 
and most generous cordials may sometimes be fatal to those 
who have been long in a languishing state. 

But whether the Queen deemed it too presumptuous in so 
young a courtier to interpose his opinion unasked, or whether 
she was moved by a recurrence of the feeling of jealousy, which 
had been instilled into her, by reports that the Earl kept 
armed men about his person, she desired Raleigh, sharply, to 
reserve his counsel till it was required of him, and repeated 
her former orders, to be landed at Deptford, adding, “ We will 
ourselves see what sort of household my Lord of Sussex keeps 
about him,” 


KENILWORTH. PES 


 “ Now the Lord have pity on us!” said the young courtier 
to himself. ‘ Good hearts, the Earl hath many a one round 
him ; but good heads are scarce with us—and he himself is too 
ill to give direction. And Blount will be at his morning mea! 
of Yarmouth herrings and ale ; and Tracy will have his beastly 
black puddings and Rhenish ;—those thorough-paced Welshmen, 
Thomas ap Rice and Evan Evans, will be at work on their leek 
porridge and toasted cheese—and she detests, they say, all 
coarse’ meats, evil smells, and strong wines. Could they but 
think of burning some rosemary in the great hall! but vogue 
la galére, all must now be trusted to chance. Luck hath done 
indifferent well for me this morning, for I trust I have spoiled 
a cloak and made a court fortune—May she do as much for my 
gallant patron!” 

The royal barge soon stopped at Deptford, and, amid the 
loud shouts of the populace, which her presence never failed to 
excite, the Queén, with a canopy borne over her head, walked, 
accompanied by her retinue, toward Say’s Court, where the dis- 
tant acclamations of the people gave the first notice of her 
arrival. Sussex, who was in the act of advising with Tressilian 
how he should make up the supposed breach in the Queen’s 
favor, was infinitely surprised at learning her immediate ap- 
proach—not that the Queen’s custom of visiting her more dis- 
tinguished nobility, whether in health or sickness, could be 
unknown to him ; but the suddenness of the communication left 
no time for those preparations with which he well knew Eliza- 
beth loved to be greeted, and the rudeness and confusion of 
his ‘military household, much increased by his late illness, 
rendered him altogether unprepared for her reception. 

Cursing internally the chance which thus brought her 
gracious visitation on him unaware, he hastened down with 
Tressilian, to whose eventful and interesting story he had just 
given an attentive ear. 

“My worthy friend,” he said, “such support as I can give 
your accusation of Varney, you have a right to expect alike 
from justice and gratitude. Chance will presently show whether 
Ican do aught with our Sovereign, or whether, in very deed, 
my meddling in your affair may not rather prejudice than serve 

ou.” 

Thus spoke Sussex, while hastily casting around him a Joose 
robe of sables, and adjusting his person in the best manner he 
could to meet the eye of his Sovereign. But no hurried atten- 
tion bestowed on his apparel could remove the ghastly effects 
of long illness on a countenance which nature had marked with 
features rather strong than pleasing, Besides, he was of low 


160 | KENILWORTH. 


stature, and though broad-shouldered, athletic, and fit for mat 
tial achievements, his presence in a peaceful hall was not such 
as ladies love to look upon; a personal disadvantage, which 
was supposed to give Sussex, though esteemed and honored by 
his Sovereign, considerable disadvantage when compared with 
Leicester, who was alike remarkable for elegance of manners 
and for beauty of person. 

The Earl’s utmost despatch only enabled him to meet the 
Queen as she entered the great hall, and he at once perceived 
there was a cloud on her brow. Her jealous eye had noticed 
the martial array of armed gentlemen and retainers with which 
the mansion-house was filled, and her first words expressed 
her disapprobation—“‘ Is this a royal garrison, my Lord of 
Sussex, that it holds so many pikes and calivers! or have we 
by accident overshot Say’s Court, and landed at our Tower of 
“London?” 

Lord Sussex hastened to offer some apology. 

“It needs not,” she said. ‘‘ My lord, we intend speedily to 
take up a certain quarrel between your lordship and another 
great lord of our household, and at the same time to reprehend 
this uncivilized and dangerous practice of surrounding your- 
selves with armed, and even with ruffianly followers, as if, in the 
neighborhood of our capital, nay, in the very verge of our royal 
residence, you were preparing to wage civil war with each other. 
We are glad to see you so well recovered, my lord, though with- 
out the assistance of the learned physician whom we sent to you 
—Urge no excuse—we know how that matter fell out, and we 
have corrected for it the wild slip, young Raleigh—By the way, 
my lord, we will speedily relieve your household of him, and 
take him into our own. Something there is about him which 
merits to be better nurtured than he is like to be amongst your 
very military followers.” 

To this proposal Sussex, though scarce understanding how 
the Queen came to make it, could only bow and express his 
acquiescence. He then entreated her to remain till refreshment 
could be offered ; but in this he could not prevail. And after 
a few compliments of a much colder and more commonplace 
character than might have been expected from a step so 
decidedly favorable as a personal visit, the Queen took her 
leave of Say’s Court, having brought confusion thither along 
with her, and leaving doubt and apprehension behind. 


KENILWORTH. 161 


CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. 


Then call them to our presence. Face to face, 
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear 
The accuser and accused freely speak ;— 
High-stomach’d are they both and full of ire, 
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. 
RICHARD II. 


“JT am ordered to attend court to-morrow,” said Leicester, 
speaking to Varney, “to meet, as they surmise, my Lord of 
Sussex. The Queen intends to take up matters betwixt us. 
This comes of her visit to Say’s Court, of which you must needs 
speak so lightly.” 

“J maintain it was nothing,” said Varney; “nay, I know 
from asure intelligencer, who was within ear-shot of much that 
was said, that Sussex has lost rather than gained by that visit. 
The Queen said, when she stepped into the boat, that Say’s 
Court looked like a guard-house, and smelt like an hospital. 
“Like a cook’s shop in Ram’s Alley, rather,’ said the Countess 
of Rutland, who is ever your lordship’s good friend: And then 
my Lord of Lincoln must needs put in his holy oar, and say, 
that my Lord of Sussex must be excused for his rude and old- 
world housekeeping, since he had as yet no wife.” 

“And what said the Queen?”’ asked Leicester hastily. 

«She took him up roundly,” said Varney, “ and asked what 
my Lord Sussex had to do with a wife, or my Lord Bishop to 
speak on such a subject. If marriage is permitted, she said I 
nowhere read that it is enjoined.” 

“She likes not marriages, or speech of marriage, among 
churchmen,” said Leicester. 

“ Nor among courtiers neither,” said Varney ; but observing 
that Leicester changed countenance, he instantly added, “ that 
all the ladies who were present had joined in ridiculing Lord 
Sussex’s housekeeping, and in contrasting it with the recep- 
tion her Grace would have assuredly received at my Lord of 
Leicester’s.” 

“You have gathered much tidings,” said Leicester, ‘‘ but 
you have forgotten or omitted the most important of all. She 
hath added another to those dangling satellites, whom it is her 
pleasure to keep revolving around her.” 

“Your lordship meaneth that Raleigh, the Devonshire 


” 


162 | KENILWORTH. 


youth,” said Varney, “ the Knight of the Cloak, as they call 
him at court ? ” 

“ He may be Knight of the Garter one day, for aught I 
know,” said Leicester, “‘ for he advances rapidly—She. hath 
cap’d verses with him, and such fooleries. I would gladly 
abandon, of my own free will, the part I have in her fickle 
favor ; but I will not be elbowed out of it by the clown Sussex, 
or this new upstart. I hear Tressilian.is with Sussex also, and 
high in his favor—I would spare him for considerations, but he 
will thrust himself on his fate—Sussex, too, is almost as well 
as ever in his health.” 

“ My lord,” replied Varney, ‘‘ there will be rubs in the 
smoothest road, specially when it leads uphill. Sussex’s illness 
was to us a god-send, from which I hoped much. Hevhas re- 
covered indeed, but he is not now more formidable than ere he 
fell ill, when he received more than one foil'in wrestling with 
your lordship. Let not your heart fail you, my lord, and all 
shall be well.” 

‘“‘ My heart never failed me, sir,” replied Leicester. 

‘“‘ No, my lord,” said Varney ; ‘ but it has betrayed youright — 
often. He that would climb a tree, my lord, must grasp by the 
branches, not by the blossom.” 

“ Well, well, well ! ” said Leicester impatiently ; “ I under- 
stand thy meaning—My heart shall neither fail me nor seduce 
me. Have my retinue in order—see that their array be so 
splendid as to put down not only the rude companions of Rat- 
cliffe, but the retainers of every other nobleman and courtier. 
Let them be well armed withal, but without any outward dis- 
play of their weapons, wearing them as if more for fashion’s 
sake than for use. Do thou thyself keep close to me, I may 
have business for you.” 

The preparations of Sussex and his party were not less anxk 
ous than those of Leicester. 

“Thy Supplication, impeaching Varney of seduction,” said 
the Earl to Tressilian, “is by this time in the Queen’s hand— 
I have sent it through a sure channel. Methinks your ‘suit 
should succeed, being, as it is, founded in justice and honor, 
and Elizabeth being the very muster of both. But I wot not 
how—the gipsy” (so Sussex was wont to call his rival on 
account of his dark complexion) “ hath much to say with her 
in these holiday times of peace—Were war at the gates I should 
be one of her white boys; but soldiers, like their bucklers and 
Bilboa blades, get out of fashion in peace time, and satin sleeves 
and walking rapiers bear the bell. Well, we must be gay since 
such is the fashion,—Blount, hast thou seen our household put 


’ 


KENILWORTH. 163 


into their new braveries?—But thou know’st as little of these 
toys as 1 do—thou wouldst be ready enough at disposing a stand 
of pikes.” 

‘My good lord,” answered Blount, “ Raleigh hath been here 
and taken that charge upon him—Your train will glitter like 
a May morning.—Marry, the cost is another question. One 
might keep an hospital of old soldiers at the charge of ten 
modern lackeys.” 

““We must not count cost to-day, Nicholas,” said the Earl in 
reply; “I am beholden to Raleigh for his care—I trust, though, 
he has remembered that Iam an old soldier, and would have no 
more of these follies than needs must.” 

“Nay, I understand nought about it,” said Blount; ‘but 
here are your honorable lordship’s brave kinsmen and friends 
coming in by scores to wait upon you to court, where, methinks, 
we shall bear as brave a front as Leicester, let him ruffle it as 
he will.” 

“Give them the strictest charges.” said Sussex, “ that they 
suffer no provocation short of actual violence to provoke them 
into quarrel—they have hot bloods, and I would not give 
Leicester the advantage over me by any imprudence of theirs.” 

The Earl of Sussex ran so hastily through these directions, 
that it was with difficulty Tressilian at length found opportunity 
to express his surprise that he should have proceeded so far in 
the affair of Sir Hugh Robsart as to lay his petition at once 
before the Queen—“ It was the opinion of the young lady’s 
friends,” he said, ‘that Leicester’s sense of justice should be 
first appealed to, as the offence had been committed by his 
officer, and so he had expressly told to Sussex.” 

‘This could have been done without applying to me,” said 
Sussex, somewhat haughtily. ‘Z, at least, ought not to have 
been a counselor when the object was a humiliating reference 
to Leicester; and I am surprised that you, Tressilian, a man 
of honor and my friend, would assume such a mean course. 
If you said so I certainly understood you not in a matter which 
sounded so, un-like yourself.” 

“ My lord,” said Tressilian, “‘the course I would prefer, for 
my own sake, is that you have adopted - but the friends of this 
most unhappy lady ” 

“Oh, the friends—the friends,” said Sussex, interrupting 
him ; “ they must let us manage this cause in the way which 
seems best. This is the time and the hour to accumulate every 
charge against Leicester and his household, and yours the Queen 
will hold a heavy one. But at all events she hath the complaint 
before her,” J 


164 KENILWORTH. 


Tressilian could not help suspecting that, in his eagerness te 
strengthen himself against his rival, Sussex had purposely. 
adopted the course most likely to throw odium on Leicester, 
without considering minutely whether it were the mode of pro- 
ceeding most likely to be attended with success. But the step 
was irrevocable, and Sussex escaped from further discussing it 
by. dismissing his company, with the command, ‘ Let all be in 
order at eleven o ’ clock ; I must be at court and in the presence 
by high noon: precisely. ” 

While the rival statesmen were thus anxiously preparing for 

their approaching meeting in the Queen’s presence, even Eliza- 
beth herself was not without apprehension of what might chance 
from the: collision of two such fiery spirits, each backed by a 
strong and numerous body of followers, and dividing betwixt 
them, either openly or in secret, the hopes and wishes of most 
of her court. The band of Gentlemen Pensioners were all 
under arms, and a reinforcement of the yeomen of the guard 
was brought down the: Thames from London. <A royal procla- 
mation, was sent forth, strictly prohibiting nobles of whatever 
degree, to approach the Palace with retainers or followers, armed 
with short, or with long weapons; and it was even whispered, 
that the High Sheriff of Kent had secret instructions to have a 
part of the,array of the county ready on the shortest notice. 
» ‘The eventful hour, thus anxiously prepared for on all sides, 
at length approached, and, each followed by his long and glitter- 
ing train:of friends and followers, the rival Earls entered the 
Palace-yard of Greenwich at noon precisely. 

As if by previous-arrangement, or perhaps by intimation that 
such was the Queen’s pleasure, Sussex and his retinue came to 
the Palace from Deptford by water, while Leicester arrived by 
land ; and thus they entered the courtyard fromopposite sides. 
This trifling circumstance gave Leicester a certain ascendency 
in the opinion of the vulgar, the appearance of his cavalcade of 
mounted followers showing more numerous and: more imposing 
than those of Sussex’s party, who were necessarily upon foot. 
No show or sign of greeting passed between the Earls, though 
each looked full at the other, both expecting perhaps an exchange 
of courtesies, which neither was willing to commence. Almost in 
the minute of their arrival the castle-bell tolled, the gates of 
the Palace were opened, and the Earls entered, each numerously 
attended by such gentlemen of their train whose rank gave them 
that privilege... The yeomen and inferior attendants remained 
in the courtyard, where the opposite parties eyed each other with 
looks of eager hatred and scorn, as if waiting with impatience 
for some cause of tumult, or some apology for mutual! aggression, 


KENILWORTH. 168 


But they were restrained by the strict commands of their leaders, 
and overawed, perhaps, by the presence of an armed guard of 
unusual strength. 

In the meanwhile, the more distinguished persons of each 
train followed their patrons into the lofty halls and antechambers 
of the royal Palace, flowing on in the same current, like two 
streams which are compelled into the same channel, yet shun ta 
mix their waters. The parties arranged themselves, as it were 
instinctively, on the different sides of the lofty apartment, and 
seemed eager to escape from the transient union which the nar- 
rowness of the crowded entrance had for an instant compelled 
them to submit to. The folding doors at the upper end of the 
long gallery were immediately afterward opened, and it was an- 
nounced in a whisper that the Queen was in her presence-chamber, 
to which these gave access. Both Earls moved slowly and stately 
toward the entrance ; ; Sussex followed by Tressilian, Blount, and 
Raleigh, and Leicester by Varney. The pride of Leicester was 
obliged to give way to court-forms, and with a grave and formal in- 
clination of the head, he paused until his rival, a peer of older crea- 
tion than his own, passed before him. Sussex returned the rever- 
ence with the same formal civility, and entered the presence-room 
Tressilian and Blount offered to follow him, but were not per- 
mitted, the Usher of the Black Rod alleging in excuse, that he 
had precise orders to look to all admissions that day. To 
Raleigh, who stood back on the repulse of his companions, he 
said, ‘“‘ You, sir, may enter,” and he entered accordingly. 

“Follow me close, Varney,” said the Earl of Leicester, who 
had stood aloof for a moment to mark the reception of Sussex ; 
and, advancing to the entrance, he was about to pass on, when 
Varney, who was close behind him, dressed out in the utmost 
bravery of the day, was stopped by the usher, as Tressilian and 
Blount had been before him: ‘‘ How is this, Master Bowyer ?” 
said the Earl of Leicester. “ Know you who I am, and that 
this is my friend and follower?” 

“Your lordship will pardon me,” replied Bowyer, stoutly ; 
““my orders are precise, and limit me to a strict discharge of 
my duty.” 

‘“‘' Thou are a partial knave,” said Leicester, the blood mount- 
ing to his face, “to do me this dishonor, when you but now 
admitted a follower of my Lord of Sussex.” 

“ My lord,” said Bowyer, ‘‘ Master Raleigh is newly admitted 
a sworn servant of her Grace, and to him my orders did not 
apply.” 

“Thou art a knave—an ungrateful knave,” said Leicester; 


“Sb KENILWORTH. 


“but he that hath done, can undo—thou shalt not prank thee it 
thy authority long.” 

This threat he uttered aloud, with less than his usual allan 
and discretion, and having done so, he entered the presence- 
chamber, and made his reverence to the Queen, who, attired with 
even more than her usual splendor, and surrounded by those 
nobles and statesmen whose courage and wisdom have rendered 
her reign immortal, stood ready to receive the homage of her 
subjects. She graciously returned the obeisance of the favorite 
Earl, and looked alternately at him and at Sussex, as if about to 
speak, when Bowyer, a man whose spirit could not brook the 
insult he had so openly received from Leicester, in the discharge 
of his office, advanced with his black rod in his hand, and knelt 
down before her. 

‘Why, how now, Bowyer,” said Elizabeth, ‘thy courtesy 
seems strangely timed !” ; | 

“* My Liege Sovereign,” he said, while every courtier around 
trembled at his audacity, “I come but to ask, whether, in the 
discharge of my office, 1 am to obey your Highness’ commands, 
or those of the Earl of Leicester, who has publicly menaced me 
with his displeasure, and treated me with disparaging terms, 
because I denied entry to one of his followers, in obedience to 
your Grace’s precise orders ?.” 

The spirit of Henry VIII. was instantly aroused in the 
bosom of his» daughter, and she turned on Leicester with a 
severity which appalled him, as well as all his followers. 

‘“‘ God’s death, my lord,” such was her emphatic phrase. 
“what means this? We have thought well of ‘you, and 
brought you near to our person; but it was not that you might 
hide the sun from our faithful subjects. Who gave you license 
to contradict our orders, or control our officers? I will have 
in this court, ay, and in this realm, but one mistress, and no 
master. Look to it that Master Bowyer sustains no harm for 
his duty to me faithfully discharged; for, as I am Christian 
woman and crowned Queen, I will hold you dearly answerable. 
-—Go, Bowyer, you have done that part of an honest man and 
a true subject. We will brook no mayor of the palace here.” 

Bowyer kissed the hand which she extended toward him, 
and withdrew to his post, astonished at the success of his own 
audacity., A smile of triumph pervaded the faction of Sussex; 
that of Leicester seemed proportionally dismayed, and the 
favorite himself, assuming an.aspect of the deepest humility 
did not even attempt a word in his own exculpation. 

He acted wisely ; for it was the policy of Elizabeth to humble 
not to disgrace him, and it was prudent to suffer her, without 


KENILWORTH. 167 


opposition or reply, to glory in the exertion of her authority, 
The dignity of the Queen was gratified, and the woman began 
soon to feel for the mortification which she had imposed on 
her favorite. Her keen eye also observed the secret looks of 
congratulation exchanged amongst those who favored Sussex, 
and. it was no part of her policy to give either party a decisive 
triumph. 

“What I say to my Lord of Leicester,” she said, after a 
moment’s pause, “I say also to you, my Lord of Sussex. You 
also must needs ruffle in the court of England, at the head of a 
faction of your own?” 

‘My followers, gracious Princess,” said Sussex, “ have in- 
deed ruffled in your cause, in Ireland, in Scotland, and against 
yonder rebellious Earls in the north. Iam ignorant that” 

“Do you bandy looks and words with me, my lord?”’ said 

the Queen interrupting him; “ methinks you might learn of 
my Lord of Leicester the modesty to be silent, at least, under 
our censure. I say, my lord, that my grandfather and father, 
in their wisdom, debarred the nobles of this civilized land from 
traveling with such disorderly retinues; and think you that 
because I wear a coif, their sceptre has in my hand been 
changed into a distaff? I tell you, no king in Christendom 
will less brook his court to be cumbered, his people oppressed, 
and his kingdom’s peace disturbed by the arrogance of over- 
grown ‘power, than she who now speaks with youu—My Lord 
of Leicester, and you, my Lord of Sussex, I command you 
both to be friends with each other; or, by the crown I wear, 
you shall find an enemy who will be too strong for both of 
rou!” 
Nort Madam,” said the Earl of Leicester, ‘“‘ you who are your- 
self the fountain of honor, know best what is due to mine. I 
place it at your disposal, and only say, that the terms on which 
I have stood with my Lord of Sussex have not been of my 
seeking; nor had he cause to think me his enemy, until he had 
done me gross wrong.” 

“For: me, madam,” said the Earl of Sussex, “I cannot 
appeal from your sovereign pleasure ; but I were well content 
my Lord of Leicester should say in what I have, as he terms 
it, wronged him, since my tongue never spoke the word that I 
would not willingly justify either on foot or horseback.” 

“And for me,” said Leicester, “ always under my gracious 
cle a pleasure, my hand shall be as ready to make good 
my words as that of any man who ever wrote himself Ratcliffe.” 
» “My lords,” said the Queen, ‘these are no terms for this 
presence; and if you cannot keep your temper we will find 


168 KENILWORTH. 


means to keep both that and you close enough. Let me see 
you join hands, my lords, and forget your idle animosities.” 

“The two rivals looked at each other with reluctant eyes, 
each unwilling to make the first advance to execute the Queen’s 
will. 

*‘ Sussex,’”? said Elizabeth, ‘I entreat—Leicester, I com- 
mand you.” 

Yet, so were her words accented, that the entreaty sounded 
like command, and the command like entreaty. ‘They remained 
still and stubborn, until she raised her voice to a height which 
argued at once impatience and absolute command. 

“Sir Henry Lee,” she said, to an officer in attendance, 
“have a guard in present readiness, and man a barge instantly. 
—My Lords of Sussex and Leicester, I bid you once more to 
join hands—and, God’s death! he that refuses shall taste of 
our Tower fare ere he see our face again. I will lower’ your 
proud hearts ere we part, and that I promise, on the word of a 
Queen.” 

“The prison,” said Leicester, “‘might be borne, but to lose 
your Grace’s presence, were to lose light and life at once.— 
Here, Sussex, is my hand.” 

“‘ And here,” said Sussex, ‘is mine in truth and honesty ; 
but ”—— 

“Nay, under favor, you shall add no more,” said the Queen, 
““Why, this is as it should be,” she added, looking on them 
more favorably, ‘“‘and when you, the shepherds of the people, 
unite to protect them, it shall be well with the flock we rule 
over. For, my lords, I tell you plainly, your follies and your 
brawls lead to strange disorders among your servants.—My 
Lord of Liecester, you have a gentleman in your household 
called Varney?” 

““Yes, gracious madam,” replied Leicester, “I presented 
him to kiss your royal hand when you were last at Nonsuch.” 

“His outside was well enough,” said the Queen, ‘ but 
scarce so fair, I should have thought, as to have caused a 
maiden of honorable birth and hopes to barter her fame for his 
good looks, and become his paramour. Yet so it is—this fellow 
of yours hath seduced the daughter of a good old Devonshire 
knight, Sir Hugh Robsart of Lidcote Hall, and she hath fled 
with him from her father’s house like a castaway.—My Lord of 
Leicester, are you ill, that you look so deadly pale?” 

“No, gracious madam, ” said Leicester; and it required 
every effort he could make to bring forth these few words. 

“You are surely ill, my lord?” said Elizabeth, going toward 
him with hasty speech and hurried step, which indicated the 


KENILWORTH. 169 


deepest concern. ‘Call Masters—call our surgeon in ordinary 

—Where be these loitering fools ?—We lose the pride of our 
court through their negligence.—Or, is it possible, Leicester,” 
she continued, looking on him with a very gentle aspect, “ can 
fear of my displeasure have wrought so deeply on thee ? Doubt 
not for a moment, noble Dudley, that we could blame ¢#ee for 
the folly of thy retainer—thee, whose thoughts we know to be 
far otherwise employed! He that would climb the eagle’s 
nest, my lord, cares not who are catching linnets at the foot of 
the precipice.” 

“ Mark you that?” said Sussex, aside to Raleigh. ‘“ The 
devil aids him surely; for all that would sink another: ten 
fathom deep, seems but to make him float the more easily. 
Had a follower of mine acted thus ”—— 

“Peace, my good Lord,” said Raleigh, “for God’s sake, 
peace. Wait the change of the tide; it is even now on the 
turnd”) | 

The acute observation of Raleigh, perhaps, did not deceive 
him; for Leicester’s confusion was so great, and, indeed, for 
the moment, so irresistibly overwhelming, that Elizabeth, after 
looking at him with a wondering eye, and receiving no intelli- 
gible answer to the usual expressions of grace and affection 
which had escaped from her, shot her quick glance around the 
circle of courtiers, and reading, perhaps, in their faces, some- 
thing that accorded with her own awakened suspicions, she 
said suddenly, “Or is there more in this than we see—or than 
you, my lord, wish that we should see? Where is this Varney ? 
Who saw him?” 

“An it please your Grace,” said Bowyer, “it is the same 
against whom I this instant closed the door of the presence- 
room.” 

“An it please me?” repeated Elizabeth, sharply, not at 
that moment in the humor of being pleased with anything,— 
““It does wot please me that he should pass saucily into my 
presence, or that you should exclude from it one who came to 
justify himself from an accusation.’ 

“‘ May it please you,” answered the perplexed usher, “If I 
knew, in such case, how to bear myself, I would take heed” 

“You should have reported the feliow’s desire to us, Master 
Usher, and taken our directions. You think yourself a great 
man, because but now we chid a nobleman on your account— 
yet, after all, we hold you but as the lead-weight that keeps 
the door fast. Call this Varney hither instantly—there is one 
Tressilian also mentioned in this ec etna them both come 
before us.” 


170 KENILWORTH. 


She was obeyed, and Tressilian and Varney appeared accord: 
ingly. Varney’s first glance was at Leicester, his second at the 
Queen. In the looks of the latter, there appeared an approach. 
ing storm, and in the downcast countenance of his patron, he 
could read no directions in what way he was to trim his vessel 
for the encounter—he then saw Tressilian, and at once per- 
ceived the peril of the situation in which he was placed. But 
Varney was as bold-faced and ready-witted as he was cunning 
and unscrupulous,—a skilful pilot in extremity, and fully con- 
scious of the advantages which he would obtain, could he ex- 
tricate Leicester from his present peril, and of the ruin that 
yawned for himself should he fail in doing so. 

“Ts it true, sirrah,” said the Queen, with one of those search- 
ing looks which few had the audacity to resist, ‘“‘ that you have 
seduced tu infamy a young lady of birth and breeding, the 
daughter of Sir Hugh Robsart of Lidcote Hall?” 

Varney kneeled down, and replied, with a look of the most 
profound contrition, ‘‘There had been some love passages 
betwixt him and Mistress Amy Robsart.” 

Leicester’s flesh quivered with indignation as he heard his 
dependant make this avowal, and for one moment he manned 
himself to step forward, and, bidding farewell to the court and 
the royal favor, confess the whole mystery of the secret mar- 
riage. But he looked at Sussex, and the idea of the triumphant 
smile which would clothe his cheek upon hearing the avowal, 
sealed his lips. ‘‘ Not now, at least,” he thought, “or in this 
presence, will I afford him so rich a triumph.” And pressing 
his hips close together, he stood firm and collected, attentive to 
each word which Varney uttered, and determined to hide to the 
last the secret on which his court favor seemed to depend. 
Meanwhile, the Queen proceeded in her examination of Varney. 

‘“‘ Love passages!” said she, echoing his last words ; “ what 
passages, thou knave ? and why not ask the wench’s hand from 
her father, if thou hadst any honesty in thy love for her?” 

‘“‘ An it please your Grace,” said Varney, still on his knees, 
“J dared not do so, for her father had promised her hand toa 
gentleman of birth and honor—I will do him justice, though I 
know he bears me ill will—one Master Edmund Tressilian, 
whom I now see in the presence.” 

“Soh!” replied the Queen; ‘and what was your right to 
make the simple fool break her worthy father’s contract, through 
your love passages, as your conceit and assurance term them ?” 

‘“‘ Madam,” replied Varney, “it is in vain to plead the cause 
of human frailty before a judge to whom it is unknown, or that 
of love, to one who never yields to the passion” —He paused, 


KENILWORTH. yt 


an instant, and then added, in a very low and timid tone, 
* which she inflicts upon all others.” 

_ Elizabeth tried to frown, but smiled in her own despite, as 
she answered, “Thou art a marvelously impudent knave—Art 
thou married to the girl?” 

Leicester’s feelings became so complicated and so painfully 
intense, that it seemed to him as if his life was to depend on 
the answer made by Varney, who, after amoment’s real hesita- 
tion, answered, “ Yes.” 7 

“Thou false villain!” said Leicester, bursting forth into 
rage, yet unable to add another word to the sentence, which he 
had begun with such emphatic passion. 

“Nay, my lord,” said the Queen, “we will, by your leave, 
stand between this fellow and your anger. We have not yet 
done with him.—Knew your master, my Lord of Leicester, of 
this fair work of yours? Speak truth I command thee, and I 
will be thy warrant from danger onevery quarter.” 

“Gracious madam,” said Varney, “ to speak heaven’s truth, 
my lord was the cause of the whole matter.” 

* Thou villain, wouldst thou betray me?” said Leicester. 

** Speak on,” said the Queen, hastily, her cheek coloring, 
and her eyes sparkling, as she addressed Varney; “speak on— 
here no commands are heard but mine.” 

“They are omnipotent, gracious madam,” replied Varney ; 
“and to you there can be’ no secrets.—Yet I would not,” he 
added, looking around him, “‘ speak of my master’s concerns to 
other ears.” 

“Fall back, my lords,” said the Queen to those who sur- 
rounded her, “and do you speak on.—What hath the Earl to 
do with this guilty intrigue of thine ?—See, fellow, that thou 
beliest him not!” 

“Far be it from me to traduce my noble patron,” re- 
plied Varney; ‘“‘yet I am compelled to own that some deep, 
overwhelming, yet secret feeling, hath of late dwelt in my lord’s 
mind, hath abstracted him from the cares of the household, 
which he was wont to govern with such religious strictness, and 
hath left us opportunities to do follies, of which the shame, as 
in this case, partly falls upon our patron. Without this, I had 
not had means or leisure to commit the folly which has drawn 
on me his displeasure ; the heaviest to endure by me, which I 
could by any means incur,—saving always the yet more dreaded 
resentment of your Grace.” 

“And in this sense, and no other, hath he been accessory to 
thy fault?” said Elizabeth. 

“Surely, madam, in no other,” replied Varney; “ but since 


172 KENILWORTH. 


somewhat hath chanced to him, he canscarce be called his own 
man. Look at him, madam, how pale and trembling he stands 
—how unlike his usual majesty of manner—yet what has he 
to fear from aught I can say to your Highness? Ah! madam, 
since he received that fatal packet ?” 

“ What packet, and from whence?” said the Queen, eagerly. 

‘From whence, madam, I cannot guess; but I am so near 
to his person, that I know he has ever since worn, suspended 
around his neck, and next to his heart, that lock of hair which 
sustains a small golden jewel shaped like a heart—he speaks to 
it when alone—he parts not from it when he sleeps—no heathen 
ever worshiped an idol with such devotion.” 

“Thou art a prying knave to watch thy master so closely,” 
said Elizabeth, blushing, but not with anger; “and a tattling 
knave to tell over again his fooleries—What color might the 
braid of hair be that thou pratest of ?”’ 

Varney replied, ““A poet, madam, might call it a thread 
from the golden web wrought by Minerva ; but, to my think- 
ing, it was 5 paler than even the purest gold—more like the last 
parting sunbeam of the softest day of spring.” 

‘““Why, you are a poet yourself, Master Varney,” said the 
Queen, smiling; ‘‘ but ] have not genius quick enough to follow 
your rare metaphors—Look round these ladies—is there ”—(she 
hesitated, and endeavored to assume an air of great indifference) 
—‘‘ Is there here, in this presence, any lady, the color of whose 
hair reminds thee of that braid ; Methinks, without prying into 
my Lord of Leicester’s amorous secrets, I would fain know 
what kind of locks are like the thread of Minerva’s web, or the 
—what was it ?—the last rays of the Mayday sun.” 

Varney looked round the presence-chamber, his eye travel- 
ing from one lady to another, until at length it rested upon the 
Queen herself, but with an aspect of the deepest veneration. 
‘“‘T see no tresses,” he said, ‘fin this presence, worthy of such 
similes, unless where I dare not look on them.” 

“ How, sir knave,” said the Queen, “dare you inti- 
mate” 

“‘ Nay, madam,” replied Varney, shading his eyes with his 
hand, ‘‘it was the beams of the Mayday sun that dazzled my 
weak eyes.” 

“Go to—go to,” said the Queen; “thou art a foolish fel 
low”’—and turning quickly from him she walked up to Leicest- 
er. 


Intense curiosity, mingled with all the various hopes, fears, 
and passions, which influence court faction, had occupied the 
presence-chamber during the Queen’s conference with Varney, 


KENILWORTH. 143 


as if with the strength of an Eastern talisman. Men suspended 
every, even the slightest external motion, and would have ceased 
to breathe, had Nature permitted such an intermission of her 
functions. ‘The atmosphere was contagious, and Leicester, who 
saw all around wishing or fearing his advancement or his fall, 
forgot all that love had previously dictated, and saw nothing 
for the instant but the favor or disgrace, which depended on 
the nod of Elizabeth and the fidelity of Varney. He sum- 
moned himself hastily, and prepared to play his part in the 
scene which was like to ensue, when, as he judged from the 
glances which the Queen threw toward him, Varney’s com- 
munications, be they what they might, were operating in his 
favor. Elizabeth did not long leave him in doubt; for the 
more than favor with which she accosted him decided his 
triumph in the eyes of his rival, and of the assembled court of 
England——“ Thou hast a prating servant of this same Varney, 
my lord,” she said; ‘‘it is lucky you trust him with nothing 
that can hurt you in our opinion, for, believe me, he would 
keep no counsel.”’ 

“From your Highness,” said Leicester, dropping grace- 
fully on one knee, “it were treason he should. I would that 
my heart itself lay before you, barer than the tongue of any 
- servant could strip it.” 

“What, my lord,” said Elizabeth, looking kindly upon him, 
“is there no one little corner over which you would wish to 
spread a veil? Ah! I see you are confused at the. question, 
and your Queen knows she should not look too deeply into her 
servants’ motives for their faithful duty, lest she see what might, 
or at least, ought to, displease her.” 

Relieved by these last words, Leicester broke out into a 
torrent of expressions of deep and passionate attachment, 
which, perhaps at that moment, were not altogether fictitious. 
The mingled emotions which had at first overcome him, had 
now given way to the energetic vigor with which he had deter- 
mined to support his place in the Queen’s favor; and never 
did he seem to Elizabeth more eloquent, more handsome, more 
interesting, than while, kneeling at her feet, he conjured her to 
strip him of all his power, but to leave him the name of her 
servant.— Take from the poor Dudley,” he exclaimed, “all 
that your bounty has made him, and bid him be the poor gen- 
tleman he was when your Grace first shone on him; leave him 
no more than his cloak and his sword, but let him still boast 
he has—what in word or deed he never forfeited—the regard 
of his adored Queen and mistress !”’ 

“No, Dudley!” said Elizabeth, raising him with one hand, 


’ 


174 KENILWORTA, 


while she extended the other that he might kiss it ; “ Elizabeth 
hath not forgotten that, whilst you were a poor gentleman, 
despoiled of your hereditary rank, she was as poor a princess, 
and that in her cause you then ventured all that oppression had 
left you,—your life and honor.—Rise, my lord, and let my hand 
go !—Rise, and be what you have ever been, the grace of our 
court, and the support of our throne. Your mistress may be 
forced to chide your misdemeanors, but never without owning 
your merits.—And so help me God,” she added, turning to the 
audience, who with various feelings witnessed this interesting 
scene,—‘“ So help me God, gentlemen, as I think never sover- 
eign had a truer servant than I have in this noble Earl!” 

A murmur of assent rose from the Leicesterian faction, 
which the friends of Sussex dared not oppose. They remained 
with their eyes fixed on the ground, dismayed as well as morti- 
fied by the public and absolute triumph of their opponents. 
Leicester’s first use of the familiarity to which the Queen had 
so publicly restored him, was to ask her commands concerning 
Varney’s offence. “ Although,” he said, ‘the fellow deserves 
nothing from me but displeasure, yet, might I presume to inter- 
cede” 

“Tn truth, we had forgotten his matter,” said the Queen ; 
“and it was ill done of us, who owe justice to our meanest, as 
well as to our highest subject. We are pleased, my lord, that 
you were the first to recall the matter to our memory.—Where 
is Tressilian, the accuser ?—let him come before us.” 

Tressilian appeared, and made a low and beseeming rever- 
ence. His person, as we have elsewhere observed, had an air 
of grace and even of nobleness, which did not escape Queen 
Elizabeth’s critical observation. She looked at him with atten- 
tion, as he’stood before her unabashed, but with an air of the 
deepest dejection. | 

“IT cannot but grieve for this gentleman,” she said to Leices- 
ter. ‘I have inquired concerning him, and his presence 
confirms what I heard, that he is a scholar and a soldier, well 
accomplished both in arts and arms.. We women, my lord, are 
fanciful in our choice—I had said now, to judge by the eye, 
there was no comparison to be held betwixt your follower and 
this gentleman. But Varney is a well-spoken fellow, and, to 
say truth, that goes far with us of the weaker sex.—Look you, 
Master ‘Tressilian, a bolt lost is not a bow broken. |Your true 
affection, as I will hold it to be, hath been, it seems, but ill 
requitted; but you have scholarship, and you know there have 
been false Cressidas to be found, from the Trojan war down- 
ward, Forget, good sir, this Lady Light-o’-Love--teach your 


KENILWORTH. 178 


affection to see with a wiser eye. This we say to you, more 
from the writings of learned men, than our own knowledge, 
being, as we are, far removed by station and will, from the 
enlargement of experience in such idle toys of humorous pas- 
sion. For this dame’s father, we can make his grief the less, 
by advancing his son-in-law to such station as may enable him 
to give an honorable support to his bride. Thou shalt not be 
forgotten thyself, Tressilian—foilow our court, and thou shalt 
see that a true Troilus hath some claim in our grace. ‘Think 
of what that arch-knave Shakspeare says-—a playue on him, 
his toys come into my head when I should think of other 
matter—Stay, how goes it ? 


‘Cressid was yours, tied with the bonds of heaven: 
These bonds of Heaven are slipt, dissolved, and loosed, 
And with another knot five fingers tied, 

The fragments of her faith are bound to Diomed.’ 


You smile, my Lord of Southampton—perchance I make your 
player’s verse halt through my bad memory—but let it suffice 
—let there be no more of this mad matter.” 

And as Tressilian kept the posture of one who would wiil- 
ingly be heard, though, at the same time, expressive of the 
deepest reverence, the Queen added with some impatience,— 
“What would the man have? The wench cannot wed both of 
you ?—She has made her election—not a wise one perchance— 
but she is Varney’s wedded wife.” 

“My suit should sleep there, most gracious Sovereign,” said 
Tressilian, “‘and with my suit my revenge. But 1 hold this 
Varney’s word no good warrant for the truth.” 

“ Had that doubt been elsewhere urged,” answered Varney, 
“my sword ”—— 

“ Thy sword!” interrupted Tressilian, scornfully; “ with 
her Grace’s leave, my sword shall show ” 

Peace, you knaves, both!” said the Queen; ‘‘ know you 
where you are ?—This comes of your feuds, my lords,” she add- 
ed, looking toward Leicester and Sussex; ‘‘ your followers 
catch your own humor, and must bandy and brawl in my court, 
and in my very presence, like so many Matamoros.—Look you ! 
sits, he that speaks of drawing swords in any other quarrel than 
‘mine or England’s, by my honor, I’ll bracelet him with iron 
both on wrist and ankle!” She then paused a minute, and re- 
sumed in a milder tone, “I must do justice betwixt the bold and 
‘mutinous knaves notwithstanding. —My Lord of Leicester, will 
you warrant with your honor-—that i is, to the best of your belief 


176 | KENILWORTH. 


~—that your servant speaks truth in saying he hath married this 
Amy Robsart?”’ 

This was a home-thrust, and had nearly staggered Leicester. 
But he had now gone too far to recede, and answered, after a 
moment’s hesitation, “‘ To the best of my belief—indeed on my 
certain knowledge—she is a wedded wife.” 

“Gracious madam,” said Tressilian, “may I yet request 
to know when and under what circumstances this alleged 
marriage ’”—— 

“‘ Out, sirrah,” answered the Queen ; “ a//eged marriage !— 
Have you not the word of this illustrious Earl to warrant 
the truth of what his servant says? But thou art a loser— 
-think’st thyself such at least—and thou shalt have indulgence 
—we will look into the matter ourself more at leisure. ~My 
Lord of Leicester, I trust you remember we mean to taste the 
good cheer of your castle of Kenilworth on this week ensuing 
—we will pray you to bid our good and valued friend the Earl 
of Sussex to hold company with us there.” 

“Tf the noble Earl of Sussex,” said Leicester, bowing to his 
rival with the easiest and with the most graceful courtesy, “ will 
so far honor my poor house, I will hold it an additional proof 
of the amicable regard it is your Grace’s desire we should en- 
tertain toward each other.” 

Sussex was more embarrassed—“ I should,” said he,““madam, 
be but a clog on your gayer hours since my late severe illness.” 

‘And have you been indeed so very ill ?” said Elizabeth, look- 
ing on him with more attention than before; “ you are in faith 
strangely altered, and deeply am I grieved to see it. But be of 
good cheer—we will ourselves look after the health of so valued 
a servant, and to whom we owe so much. Masters shall order 
your diet; and that we ourselves may see that he is obeyed, 
you must attend us in this progress to Kenilworth.” 

This was said so peremptorily, and at the same time with sa 
much kindness, that Sussex, however unwilling to become the 
guest of his rival, had no resource but to bow low to the Queen 
in obedience to her commands, and to express to Leicester, with 
blunt courtesy, though mingled with embarrassment, his accept- 
ance of his invitation. As the Earls exchanged compliments 
on the occasion, the Queen said to her High Treasurer, “ Me- 
thinks, my lord, the countenances of these our two noble peers 
resemble those of the two famed classic streams, the one sec 
dark and sad, the other so fair and noble—My old Master 
Ascham would have chid me for forgetting the author—It is 
Cesar, as [ think,—See what majestic calmness sits on the brow 


9 


KENILWORTH. thy 


of the noble Leicester, while Sussex seems to greet him as if 
he did our will indeed, but not willingly.” 

“The doubt of your Majesty’s favor,” answered the Lord 
Treasurer, “‘may perchance occasion the difference which does 
not,—as what does ?—-escape your Grace’s eye.” 

‘Such doubt were injurious to us, my lord,” replied the 
Queen. “We hold both to be near and dear to us, and will 
with impartiality employ both in honorable service for the weal 
of our kingdom. But we will break up their further conference 
at present.—My Lords of Sussex and Leicester, we have a word 
more with you. ‘Tressilian and Varney are near your persons 
—you will see that they attend you at Kenilworth—And as we 
shall then have both Paris and Menelaus within our call, 
so we will have this same fair Helen also, whose fickleness has 
caused this broil. Varney, thy wife must be at Kenilworth, and 
forthcoming at my order.—My Lord of Leicester, we expect 
you will look to this. 

The Earl and his follower bowed low, and raised their heads, 
without daring to look at the Queen, or at each other; for both 
felt at the instant as if the nets and toils which their own false- 
hood had woven, were in the act of closing around them. The 
Queen, however, observed not their confusion, but proceeded 
to say, ““ My Lords of Sussex and Leicester, we require your 
presence at the privy council to be presently held, where mat- 
ters of importance are to be debated. We will then take the 
water for our divertisement, and you, my lords, will attend us. 
—And that reminds us of a circumstance—Do you, Sir Squire 
of the Soiled Cassock” (distinguishing Raleigh by a smile), 
“fail not to observe that you are to attend us on our progress. 
You shall be supplied with suitable means to reform your ward- 
robe.” . 

And so terminated this celebrated audience, in which, as 
throughout her life, Elizabeth united the occasional caprice of © 
her sex, with that sense and sound policy, in which neither man 
nor woman ever excelled her. 


178 KENILWORTH. 


CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. 


Well, then—our course is chosen—spread the sail— ' 
Heave oft the lead, and mark the soundings well— 
Look to the helm, wood master—many a shoal 
Marks this stern coast, and rocks, where sits the Siren, 
Who, like ambition, lures men to their ruin. 
THE SHIPWRECK, 


Durinc the brief interval that took place betwixt the dis. 
missal of the audience and the sitting of the privy council, 
Leicester had time to reflect that he had that morning sealed 
his own fate. ‘It was impossible for him now,” he thought, 
‘after having, in the face of all that was honorable in England, 
pledged his truth (though in an ambiguous phrase) for the 
statement of Varney, to contradict or disavow it, without 
exposing himself not merely to the loss of court favor, but to. 
the highest displeasure of the Queen, his deceived mistress, 
and to the scorn and contempt at once of his rival and of all 
his compeers.” This certainly rushed at once on his mind,, 
together with all the difficulties which he would necessarily be 
exposed to in preserving a secret, which seemed now equally 
essential to his safety, to his power, and to his honor. He was 
situated like one who walks upon ice, ready to give way around 
him, and whose only safety consists in moving onward, by firm 
and ‘unvacillating steps. The Queen’s favor, to preserve which 
he had made such sacrifices, must now be secured by all means 
and at all hazards—it was the only plank which he could cling 
to in the tempest. He must settle himself, therefore, to the 
task of not only persevering, but augmenting, the Queen’s par- 
tiality—-He must be the favorite of Elizabeth, or a man utterly 
shipwrecked in fortune and in honor. All other considerations 
must be laid aside for the moment, and he repelled the intru- 
sive thoughts which forced on his mind the image of Amy, by 
saying to himself, there would be time to think hereafter how 
he was to escape from the laybrinth ultimately, since the pilot, 
who sees a Scylla under his bows, must not for the time think 
of the more distant dangers of Charybdis. 

In this mood the Earl of Leicester that day assumed his 
chair at the council table of Elizabeth; and when the hours of 
business were over, in the same mood did he occupy an honored 
place near her, during her pleasure excursion on the Thames, 
And never did he display to more advantage his powers as a 


KENILWORTH. 17 


politician of the first rank, or his parts as an accomplishec, 
courtier. | 

It chanced that in that day’s council matters were agitated 
touching the affairs of the unfortunate Mary, the seventh year 
of whose captivity in England was. now in doleful currency. 
There had been opinions in favor of this unhappy princess laid 
before Elizabeth’s council, and supported with much strength 
of argument by Sussex and others, who dwelt. more upon the 
law of nations and the breach of. hospitality, than, however 
softened or qualified, was agreeable to the Queen’s ear, -Leices- 
ter adopted the contrary opinion with great animation and 
eloquence, and described the necessity of continuing the severe 
restraint of the Queen of Scots, as a measure essential to the 
safety of the kingdom, and. particularly of Elizabeth’s sacred 
person, the lightest hair of whose head, he maintained, ought, 
in their lordships’ estimation, to be matter of more deep and 
anxious concern, than the life and fortunes of a. rival, who, 
after setting up a vain and unjust pretence -to the, throne of 
England, was now, even while in the bosom of her country, the. 
constant hope and theme of encouragement to all enemies to 
Elizabeth, whether at home or abroad. He ended by craving 
pardon of their lordships, if in the zeal of speech he had given 
any offence ; but the Queen’s safety was a theme which hurried 
him beyond his usual moderation of debate. 

Elizabeth chid him, but not severely, for the weight which 
he attached unduly to her personal interest ; yet. she owned, 
that since it had been the pleasure of Heaven to combine those 
interests with the weal of her subjects, she did only her duty 
when she adopted such measures of self-preservation as circum- 
stances forced upon her; and if the council in their wisdom 
should be of opinion, that it was needful to continue ‘some 
restraint on the person of her unhappy sister of Scotland, she 
trusted they would not blame her if she requested of the Countess 
of Shrewsbury to use her with as much kindness as might be 
consistent with her safe keeping. And with this intimation of 
her pleasure, the council was dismissed. 

Never was more anxious and ready way made for ‘‘ my Lord 
of Leicester,” than as he passed through the crowded ante- 
rooms to go toward the river side, in order to attend her 
Majesty to her barge—Never was the voice of the ushers louder, 
to “‘ make room—make room for the noble Earl’’—Never were 
these signals more promptly and reverentially obeyed—Never 
were more anxious eyes turned on him to obtain a glance of 
favor, or even of mere recognition, while the heart of many 
an humble follower throbbed betwixt the desire to offer his 


180 KENILWORTH. 


congratulations, and the fear of intruding himself on the notice 
of one so infinitely above him. ‘The whole court considered the 
issue of this day’s audience, expected with so much doubt and 
anxiety, as a decisive triumph on the part of Leicester, and 
felt assured that the orb of his rival satelite, if not altogether 
obscured by his lustre, must revolve hereafter in a dimmer and 
more distant sphere. So thought the court and courtiers, from 
high to low, and they acted accordingly. 

On the other hand, never did Leicester return the general 
greeting with such ready and condescending courtesy, or endeav- 
or more successfully to gather (in the words of one, who at 
that moment stood at no great distance from him) “ golden 
opinions from all sorts of men.” 

For all the favorite Earl had a bow, a smile at least, and 
often a kind word. Most of these were addressed to courtiers, 
whose names have long gone down the tide of oblivion ; but 
some, to such as sound strangely in our ears, when connected 
with the ordinary matters of human life, above which the 
gratitude of posterity has long elevated them. A few of 
Leicester’s interlocutory sentences ran as follows :— 

“ Poynings, good-morrow, and how does your wife and fair 
daughter ? Why come they not to court ?—Adams, your suit 
is naught—the Queen will grant no more monopolies—But I 
may serve youin another matter.—My good Alderman Aylford, 
the suit of the city, affecting Queenhithe, shall be forwarded as 
far as my poor interest can serve.—Master Edmund Spenser, 
touching your Irish petition, I would willingly aid you, from 
my love to the Muses ; but thou hast nettled the Lord Treas- 
“rer” 

“My Lord,” said the poet, “were I permitted to ex- 
plain ”’ 

‘““Come to my lodging, Edmund,” answered the Earl—“ not 
to-morrow, cr next day, but soon.—Ha, Will Shakspeare— 
wild Will !—thou hast given my nephew, Philip Sydney, love- 
powder—he cannot sleep without thy Venus and Adonis under 
his pillow! We will have thee hanged for the veriest wizard in 
Europe. Hark thee, mad wag, I have not forgotten thy matter 
of the patent, and of the bears.” 

The player bowed, and the Earl nodded and passed on—so 
that age would have told the tale—in ours, perhaps, we might 
say the immortal had done homage to the mortal. The next 
whom the favorite accosted, was one of his own zealous depend- 
ants. 

“How now, Sir Francis Denning,” he whispered, in answer 
to his exulting salutation, “that smile hath made thy face 


KENILWORTH. 181 


shorter by one-third than when I first saw it this morning.— 
Vhat, Master Bowyer, stand you back, and think you I bear 
malice ? You did: but your duty.this morning ; and, if I re- 
member aught of the passage betwixt us, it shall be in thy 
favor.” 

Then the Earl was approached, with several fantastic congees, 
by a person quaintly dressed in a doublet of black velvet, curi- 
ously slashed and pinked with crimson satin. A long cock’s 
feather in the velvet bonnet, which he held in his hand, and 
an enormous ruff, stiffened to the extremity of the absurd taste 
of the times, joined with a sharp, lively, conceited expression of 
countenance, seemed to body forth a vain, harebrained cox- 
comb, and small wit ; while the rod he held, and an assumption 
of royal authority, appeared to express some sense of official 
consequence, which qualified the natural pertness of his man- 
ner. A perpetual blush, which occupied rather the sharp nose 
than the thin cheek of this personage, seemed to speak more of 
* good life,” as it was called, than of modesty ; and the manner 
in which he approached to the Earl confirmed that suspicion. 

“Good even to you, Master Robert Laneham,” said 
Leicester, and seemed desirous to pass forward without further 
speech. 

“T have a suit to your noble lordship,” said the figure, 
boldly following him. 

“ And what is it, good master keeper of the council-chamber 
door?” 

“ Clerk of the council-chamber door,” said Master Robert 
Laneham, with emphasis, by way of reply, and of correction. 

“Well, qualify thine office as thou wilt, man,” replied the 
Earl; “what wouldst thou have with me?” 

“Simply,” answered Laneham, “that your lordship would 
be, as heretofore, my good lord, and procure me license to at- 
tend the Summer Progress unto your lordship’s most beautiful 
and all-to-be-unmatched Castle of Kenilworth.” 

“To what purpose, good Master Laneham?” replied the 
@arl; “bethink you my guests must needs be many.” | 

“Not so many,” replied the petitioner, “but that your 
nobleness will willingly spare your old servitor his crib and his 
mess. Bethink you, my lord, how necessary is this rod of mine, 
to fright away all those listeners, who else would play at bo 
peep with the honorable council, and be searching for key-holes 
and crannies in the door of the chamber, so as to render my 
staff as needful as a fly-flap in a butcher’s shop.” 

“ Methinks you have found out a fly-blown comparison for 


i82 RENILWORTH. 


the honorable council, Master Laneham,” said the Earl ; “ but 
seek not about to justify it. Come to Kenilworth, if you list ; 
there will be store of fools there besides, and so you will be 
fitted.” 

“Nay, an there be fools, my lord,” replied Laneham, with 
much glee, “I warrant I will make sport among them ; for 
no greyhound loves to cote a hare, as I to turn and course 
a fool. But I have another singular favor to beseech of your 
honor.” 

‘“‘ Speak it, and let me go,” said the Earl; “I think the 
Queen comes forth instantly.” 

“My very good lord, I would fain bring a bed-fellow with 
mes! 

“How, you irreverent rascal!” said Leicester. 

‘““Nay, my lord, my meaning was within the canons,” an- 
swered his unblushing, or rather his ever-blushing petitioner. 
“J have a wife as curious as her grandmother, who ate the 
apple. Now, take her with me I may not, her Highness’s 
orders being so strict against the officers bringing with them 
their wives in a progress, and so lumbering the court with 
womankind. But what I would crave of vour lordship is, to 
find room for her in some mummerty, or pretty pageant, in dis- 
guise, as it were; so that, not being known for my wife, there 
may be no offence.” 

“The foul fiend seize ye both!” said Leicester, stung into 
uncontrolable passion by the recollection which this speech 
excited—‘“‘ Why stop you me with such follies ?” 

The terrified clerk of the chamber-door, astonished at the 
burst of resentment he had so unconsciously produced, dropped 
his staff of office from his hand, and gazed on the incensed 
Earl with a foolish face of wonder and terror, which instantly 
recalled Leicester to himself. 

‘“‘T meant but to try if thou hadst the audacity which befits 
thine office,” saidhe hastily. ‘‘ Come to Kenilworth, and bring 
the devil with thee, if thou wilt.” 

‘““My wife, sir, hath played the devil ere now, in a Mystery, 
in Queen Mary’s time—but we shall want a trifle for prop- 
erties.” 

“‘ Here is a crown for thee,” said the Earl,—‘‘ make me rid 
of thee—the great bell rings.” 

Master Robert Laneman stared a moment at the agitation 
which he had excited, and then said to himself, as he stoope¢ 
to pick up his staff of office, ‘‘ The noble Earl runs wild humors 
to-day ; but they who give crowns, expect us witty fellows to 


KENILWORTH. 183 


wink at their unsettled starts; and, by my faith, if they paid 
not for mercy, we would finger them tightly !’’* 

Leicester moved hastily on, neglecting the courtesies he 
had hitherto dispensed so liberally, and hurrying through the 
courtly crowd, until he paused in a small withdrawing-room, 
into which he plunged to draw a moment’s breath unobserved, 
and in seclusion. 

“What am I now,” he said to himself, “that am thus jaded 
by the words of a mean, weather-beaten, goose-brained guli !— 
Conscience, thou art a bloodhound, whose growl wakes as 
readily at the paltry stir of a rat or mouse, as at the step of a 
lion.—Can I not quit myself, by one bold stroke, of a state so 
irksome, so unhonored? What if I kneel to Elizabeth, and, 
owning the whole, throw myself on her mercy?” 

As he pursued this train of thought, the door of the apart- 
ment opened, and Varney rushed in. 

“Thank God, my lord, that I have found you!” was his 
exclamation. 

“Thank the devil, whose agent thou art,” was the Earl’s 
reply. 

“Thank whom you will, my lord,” replied Varney; “ but 
hasten to the water-side. ‘The Queen is on board, and asks for 
you.” 

“Go, say I am taken suddenly ill,” replied Leicester; ‘ for, 
by Heaven, my brain can sustain this no longer!” 

““ | may well say so,’’ said Varney, with bitterness of expres- 
sion, “ for your place, ay, and mine, who, as your master of the 
horse, was to have attended your lordship, is already filled up 
in the Queen’s barge. The new minion, Walter Raleigh, and 
our old acquaintance, Tressilian, were called for to fill our 
places just as I hastened away to seek you. 

“Thou art a devil, Varney,” said Leicester hastily ; ‘ but 
thou hast the mastery for the present—I follow thee.” 

Varney replied not, but led the way out of the palace, and 
toward the river, while his master followed him, as if mechan- 
ically; until looking back, he said in a tone which savored 


of familiarity at least, if not of authority. ‘ How is this, my 
lord ?—your cloak hangs on one side,—your hose are unbraced 
—permit me ”’—— 


“Thou art a fool, Varney, as well asa knave,’ ” said Leicester, 
shaking him off, and rejecting his officious assistance ; “‘ we are 
best thus, sir—when we require you to order our person, it is 
well, but now we want you not.” 


* Note F. Robert Laneham, 


184 KENILWORTH. 


So saying, the Earl resumed at once his air of command, 
and with it his self-possession—shook his dress into yet wilder 
disorder—passed before Varney with the air of a superior and 
master, and in his turn led the way to the river-side. 

The Queen’s barge was on the very point of putting off ; 
the seat allotted to Leicester in the stern, and that to his mas- 
ter of the horse on the bow of the boat, being already filled up. 
But on Leicester’s approach there was a pause, as if the barge- 
men anticipated some alteration in their company. ‘The angry 
spot was, however, on the Queen’s cheek, as, in that cold tone 
with which superiors endeavor to veil their internal agitation, 
while speaking to those before whom it would be derogation to 
express it, she pronounced the chilling words—“ We have 
waited, my Lord of Leicester.” 

“Madam, and most gracious Princess,” said Leicester, 
“vou, who can pardon so many weaknesses which your own 
heart never knows, can best bestow your commission on the 
agitations of the bosom, which, for a moment, affect both head 
and limbs.—I came to your presence a doubting and an ac- 
cused subject ; your goodness penetrated the clouds of defama- 
tion, and restored me to my honor, and what is yet dearer, to 
your favor—is it wonderful, though for me it is most unhappy, 
that my master of the horse should have found me in a state 
which scarce permitted me to make the exertion necessary to 
follow him to this place, when one glance of your Highness, 
although, alas! an angry one, has had power to do that for 
me, in which Esculapius might have failed ?” 

“ How is this? ” said Elizabeth hastily, looking at Varney ; 
“hath your lord been ill.” 

“Something of a fainting fit,’ answered the ready-witted 
Varney, ‘as your Grace may observe from his present condi- 
tion. My lord’s haste would not permit me leisure even to 
bring his dress into order.” 

“It matters not,” said Elizabeth, as she gazed on the noble 
face and form of Leicester, to which even the strange mixture 
of passions by which he had been so lately agitated gave addi- 
tional interest; ‘‘make room for my noble lord—Your place, 
Master Varney, has been filled up; you must find a seat in 
another barge.” 

Varney bowed, and withdrew. 

“ And you, too, our young Squire of the Cloak,” added she, 
looking at Raleigh, ‘must, for the time, go to the barge of our 
ladies of honor. As for Tressilian, he had already suffered 
too much by the caprice of women, that I should aggrieve him 
by my change of plan, so far as he is concerned,” 


KENILWORTH. 186 


Leicester seated himself in his place in the barge, and close 
to the Sovereign ; Raleigh rose to retire, and Tressilian would 
have been so ill-timed in his courtesy as to offer to relinquish 
his own place to his friend, had not the acute glance of Raleigh 
himself, who seemed now in his native element, made him 
sensible, that so ready a disclamation of the royal favor might 
be misinterpreted. He sate silent, therefore, whilst Raleigh, 
with a profound bow, and a look of the deepest humiliation, 
was about to quit his place. , 

A noble courtier, the gallant Lord Willoughby, read, as he 
thought, something in the Queen’s face, which seemed to pity 
Raleigh’s real or assumed semblance of mortification. 

“It is not for us old courtiers,’ he said, ‘to: hide the 
sunshine from the young ones. I will, with her Majesty’s leave, 
relinquish for an hour that which her subjects hold dearest, the 
delight of her Highness’s presence, and mortify myself by 
walking in starlight while I forsake for a brief season the glory 
of Diana’s own beams. I will take place in the boat which 
the ladies occupy, and permit this young cavalier his hour of 
promised felicity.” 

The Queen replied, with an expression betwixt mirth and 
earnest. ‘‘ If you are so willing to leave us, my lord, we cannot 
help the mortification. But, under favor, we do not trust you 
-—old and experienced as you may deem yourself—with the 
care of our young ladies of honor. Your venerable age, my 
lord,” she continued, smiling, “may be better assorted with that 
of my Lord Treasurer, who follows in the third boat, and by 
whose experience even my Lord Willoughby’s may be im- 
proved.” 

Lord Willoughby hid his disappointment under a smile— 
laughed, was confused, bowed, and left the Queen’s barge to go 
on board my Lord Burleigh’s. Leicester, who endeavored to 
divert his thoughts from all internal reflection, by fixing them 
on what was passing around, watched this circumstance among 
others. But when the boat put off from the shore—when the 
music sounded from a barge which accompanied them—when 
the shouts of the populace were heard from the shore, and all 
reminded him of the situation in which he was placed, he 
abstracted his thoughts and feelings by a strong effort from 
» everything but the necessity of maintaining himself in the 
favor of his patroness, and exerted his talents of pleasing 
captivation with such success, that the Queen, alternately 
delighted with his conversation, and alarmed for his health, at 
length imposed a temporary silence on him, with playful yet 
anxious care, lest his flow of spirits should exhaust him, 


186 KENILWORTH. 


“« My lords,” she said, ‘‘ having passed for a time our edict 
of silence upon our good Leicester, we will call you to counsel 
on a gamesome matter, more fitted to be now treated of, amidst 
mirth and music, than in the gravity of our ordinary delibera- 
tions.—Which of you, my lords,” said she, smiling, “ know 
aught of a petition from Orson Pinnit, the keeper, as he 
qualifies himself, of our royal bears? Who stands godfather to 
his request ? ” 

‘“‘ Marry, with your Grace’s good permission, that do I,” said 
the Earl of Sussex.—‘ Orson Pinnit was a stout soldier before 
he was so mangled by the skenes of the Irish clan Mac-Donough, 
and I trust your Grace will be, as you always have been, good 
mistress to your good and trusty servants.” 

“ Surely,” said the Queen, “ it is our purpose to be so, and 
in especial to our poor soldiers and sailors, who hazard their 
lives for little pay. We would give,” she said, with her eyes 
sparkling, “ yonder royal palace of ours to be an hospital for 
their use, rather than they should call their mistress ungrateful. 
—But this is not the question,” she said, her voice, which had 
been awakened by her patriotic feelings, once more subsiding 
into the tone of gay and easy conversation ; “ for this Orson 
Pinnit’s request goes something further. He complains, that 
amidst the extreme delight with which men haunt the play- 
houses, and in especial their eager desire for seeing the exhibi- 
tions of one Will Shakspeare (whom, I think, my lords, we 
have all heard something of), the manly amusement of bear- 
baiting is falling into comparative neglect ; since men will 
rather throng to see these roguish players kill each other in 
jest, than to see our royal dogs and bears worry each other in 
bloody earnest—What say you to this, my Lord of Sussex ? ” 

“ Why, truly, gracious madam,” said Sussex, “you must 
expect little from an old soldier like me in favor of battles in 
sport, when they are compared with battles in earnest ; and 
yet, by my faith, I wish Will Shakspeare no harm. He is a 
stout man at quarter-staff, and single falchion, though, as I am 
told, a halting fellow ; and he stood, they say, a tough fight 
with the rangers of old Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecot, when he 
broke his deer-park and kissed his keeper’s daughter.” 

“IT cry you mercy, my Lord of Sussex,” said Queen Eliza- 
beth, interrupting him; “that matter was heard in council, 
and we will not have this fellow’s offence exaggerated—there 
was no kissing in the matter, and the defendant hath put the 
denial on record.—But what say you to his present practice, 
my lord, on the stage ? for there lies the point, and not in any 


KENILWORTH. 187 


ways touching his former errors, in breaking parks, or the other 
follies you speak of.” 

“Why, truly, madam,” replied Sussex, ‘as I said before, 
I wish the gamesome mad fellow no injury. Some of his 
whoreson poetry (I crave your Grace’s pardon for such a 
phrase) has rung in mine ears as if the lines sounded to boot 
and saddie.—But then it is all froth and folly—no substance 
Or seriousness in it, as your Grace has already well touched.— 
What are half-a-dozen knaves, with rusty foils and tattered 
targets, making but a mere mockery of a stout fight, to com- 
pare to the royal game of bear-baiting, which had been graced 
by your Highness’s countenance, and that of your royal prede- 
cessors, in this your princely kingdom, famous for matchless 
mastiffs, and bold bearwards, over all Christendom? Greatly 
is it to be doubted that the race of both will decay, if men 
Should throng to hear the lungs of an idle player belch forth 
nonsensical bombast, instead of bestowing their pence in en- 
couraging the bravest image of war that can be shown in 
peace, and that is the sports of the bear-garden. ‘There you 
may see the bear lying at guard with his red pinky eyes, 
watching the onset of the mastiff, like a wily captain, who 
maintains his defence that an assailant may be tempted to 
venture within his danger. And then comes Sir Mastiff, like a 
worthy champion, in full career at the throat of his adversary 
—and then shall Sir Bruin teach him the reward for those who, 
in their over-courage, neglect the policies of war, and, catching 
him in his arms, strain him to his breast like a lusty wrestler, 
until rib after rib crack like the shot of a pistolet. And then 
another mastiff, as bold, but with better aim and sounder 
judgment, catches Sir Bruin by the nether lip, and hangs fast, 
while he tosses about his blood and slaver, and tries in vain to 
shake Sir Talbot from his hold. And then” 

“Nay, by my honor, my lord,” said the Queen, laughing, 
“you have described the whole so admirably, that, had we 
never seen a bear-baiting, as we have beheld many, and hope, 
with Heaven’s allowance, to see many more, your words were 
sufficent to put the whole Bear-garden before our eyes—But 
come, who speaks next in this case?—My Lord of Leicester, 
what say you?”’ 

“ AmI then to consider myself as unmuzzled, please your 
Grace?” replied Leicester. 

“‘ Surely, my lord—that is, if you feel hearty enough to take 
part in our game,” answered Elizabeth; “and yet, when I 
think of your cognizance of the bear and ragged staff, methinks 
we had better hear some less partial orator.” 


’ 


183 KENILWORTH. 


“Nay, on my word, gracious’ Princess,” said the Earl, 
“though my brother Ambrose of Warwick and I do carry the 
ancient cognizance your Highness deigns to remember, I never- 
theless desire nothing but fair play on all sides; or, as they say, 
‘fight dog, fight bear.’ And in behalf of the players, I must 
needs say that they are witty knaves, whose rants and jests 
keep the minds of the commons from busying themselves with 
state affairs, and listening to traitorous speeches, idle rumors, 
and disloyal insinuations. When men are agape to see how 
Marlowe, Shakspeare, and other play artificers, work out their 
fanciful plots, as they call them, the mind of the spectators is 
withdrawn from the conduct of their rulers.” 

“We would not have the mind of our subjects withdrawn 
from the consideration of our own conduct, my lord,” answered 
Elizabeth; ‘because, the more closely it is examined, the 
true motives by which we are guided will appear the moré 
manifest.” 

“JY have heard, however, madam,” said the Dean of St. 
Asaph’s, an eminent Puritan, “that these players are wont, in 
their plays, not only to introduce profane and lewd éxpressions, 
tending to foster sin and harlotry, but even to bellow out such 
reflections on government, its origin and its object, as tend to 
render the subject discontented, and shake the solid foundations 
of civil society. And it seems to be, under your Grace’s favor, 
far less than safe to permit these naughty foul-mouthed knaves 
to ridicule the godly for their decent gravity, and in blasphem- 
ing Heaven, and slandering its earthly rulers, to set at defiance 
the laws both of God and man.” 

“If we could think this were true, my lord,” said Elizabeth, 
“we should give sharp correction for such offences. But it is 
ill arguing against the use of anything from its abuse. And 
touching this Shakspeare, we think there is that in his plays 
that is worth twenty Bear-gardens; and that this new under- 
taking of his Chronicles, as he calls them, may entertain, with 
honest mirth, mingled with useful instruction. hot only our sub- 
jects, but even the generation which may succeed to us.” 

“Your Majesty’s reign will need no such feeble aid to make 
it remembered to the latest posterity,” said Leicester. ‘And 
yet, in his way, Shakspeare hath so touched some incidents of 
your Majesty’s happy government, as may countervail what 
has been spoken by his reverence. the Dean of St. Asaph’s. 
There are some lines, for example,—I would my nephew, Philip 
Sidney were here, they are scarce ever out of his mouth—they 
are spoken in a mad tale of fairies, love-charms, and I wot not 
what besides; but beautiful they are, however short they may 


KENILWORTH. 189 
and must fall of the subject to which they bear a bold relation 
—and Philip murmurs them, | think, even in his dreams.” 

“You tantalize us, my lord,” said the Queen—‘ Master 
Philip Sydney is, we know, a minion of the Muses, and we are 
pleased it should be so. Valor never shines to more advantage 
than when united with the true taste and love of letters. But 
surely there are some others among our young courtiers who 
can recollect what your lordship has forgotten amid weightiet 
affairs.—Master Tressilian, you are described to me as a wor: 
shipper of Minerva—remember you aught of these lines?” 

Tressilian’s heart was too heavy, his prospects in life too 
fatally blighted, to profit by the opportunity which the Queen 
thus offered to him of attracting her attention, but he deter- 
mined to transfer the advantage to his more ambitious young 
friend; and, excusing himself on the score of want of recollec- 
tion, he added that he believed the beautiful verses, of which 
my Lord of Leicester had spoken, were in the remembrance of 
Master Walter Raleigh. 

At the command of the Queen, that cavalier repeated, with 
accent and manner which even added to their exquisite deli- 
cacy of tact and beauty of description, the celebrated vision of 
Oberon :— 

‘¢ That very time I saw (but thou couldst not), 
Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
Cupid, all arm’d : a certain aim he took 
At a fair vestal, throned by the west ; 

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 
As it should piecre a hundred thousand hearts: 
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery’s shaft 
Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon 


And the imperial vot’ress passed on, 
In maiden meditation, fancy free.”’ 


The voice of Raleigh, as he repeated the last lines, became a 
little tremulous, as if diffident how the Sovereign to whom the 
homage was addressed might receive it, exquisite as it was. If 
this diffidence was affected, it was good policy; but if real, 
there was little occasion for it. The verses were not probably 
new to the Queen, for when was ever such elegant flattery long 
in reaching the royal ear to which it was addressed? But they 
were not the less welcome when repeated by such a speaker as 
Raleigh. Alike delighted with the matter, the manner, and 
the graceful form and animated countenance of the gallant 
young reciter, Elizabeth kept time to every cadence, with look 
and with finger. When the speaker had ceased, she murmured 
over the last lines as if scarce conscious that she was overheard 
and as she uttered the words, 


‘* Tn maiden meditation, fancy free.” 


190 KENILWORTH. 


she dropt into the Thames the supplication of Orson Pinnit, 
keeper of the royal bears, to find more favorable acceptance at 
Sheerness, or wherever the tide might waft it. 

Leicester was spurred to emulation by the success of the 
young courtier’s exhibition, as the veteran racer is roused when 
a high-mettled colt passes him on the way. He turned the 
discourse on shows, banquets, pageants, and on the character of 
those by whom these gay scenes were then frequented. He 
mixed acute observation with light satire, in that just propor- 
tion which was free alike from malignant slander and insipid 
praise. He mimicked with ready accent the manners of the 
affected or the clownish, and made his own graceful tone and 
manner seem doubly such when he resumed it. Foreign coun- 
tries—their customs—their manners—the rules of their courts 
—the fashions, and even the dress of their ladies, were equally 
his theme; and seldom did he conclude without conveying 
some compliment, always couched in delicacy, and expressed 
with propriety, to the Virgin Queen, her court, and her govern- 
ment. ‘Thus passed the conversation during this pleasure voyage, 
seconded by the rest of the attendants upon the royal person, 
in gay discourse, varied by remarks upon ancient classics and 
modern authors, and enriched by maxims of deep policy and 
sound morality, by the statesmen and sages who sate around, 
and mixed wisdom with the lighter talk of a female court. 

When they returned to the palace, Elizabeth accepted, or 
rather selected, the arm of Leicester, to support her from the 
stairs where they had landed to the great gate. It even seemed 
to him (though that might arise from the flattery of his own 
imagination), that during this short passage, she leaned on him 
somewhat more than the slipperiness of the way necessarily 
demanded. Certainly her actions and words combined to ex- 
press a degree of favor, which, even in his proudest days, he 
had not till then attained. His rival, indeed, was repeatedly 
graced by the Queen’s notice; but it was in a manner that 
seemed to flow less from spontaneous inclination, than as ex- 
torted by a sense of his merit. And, in the opinion of many 
experienced courtiers, all the favor she showed him, was over- 
balanced, by her whispering in the ear of the Lady Derby, that 
“now she saw sickness was a better alchemist than she before 
wotted of, seeing it had changed my lord of Sussex’s copper 
nose into a golden one.” 

The jest transpired, and the Earl of Leicester enjoyed his 
triumph, as one to whom court favor had been both the primary 
and the ultimate motive of life, while he forgot, in the intoxica- 
tion of the moment, the perplexities and dangers of his own 


KENILWORTH, 191 


situation. Indeed, strange as it may appear, he thought less 
at that moment of the perils arising from his secret union, than 
of the marks of grace which Elizabeth from time to time showed 
to young Raleigh. ‘They were indeed transient, but they were 
conferred on one accomplished in mind and body, with grace, 
gallantry, literature and valor. An accident occurred in the 
course of the evening which riveted Leicester’s attention to 
this object. 

The nobles and courtiers who had attended the Queen on 
her pleasure expedition, were invited, with royal hospitality, to 
a splendid banquet in the hall of the palace. ‘The table was 
not, indeed, graced by the presence of the Sovereign; for, 
agreeable to her idea of what was at once modest and dignified, 
the Maiden Queen, on such occasions, was wont to take in 
private, or with one or two favorite ladies, her light and tem- 
perate meal. After a moderate interval, the court again met in 
the splendid gardens of the palace; and it was while thus en- 
gaged, that the Queen suddenly asked a lady, who was near to 
her both in place and favor, what had become of the young 
Squire Lack-Cloak. 

The Lady Paget answered, “ She had seen Mr. Raleigh but 
two or three minutes since, standing at the window of a small 
pavilion or pleasure-house, which looked out on the Thames, 
and writing on the glass with a diamond ring.” 

“That ring,” said the Queen, “was a small token I gave 
him to make amends for his spoiled mantle. Come, Paget, let 
us see what use he has made of it, for I can see through him 
already. He is a mavelously sharp-witted spirit.” 

They went to the spot, within sight of which, but at some 
distance, the young cavalier still lingered, as the fowler watches 
the net which he has set. ‘The Queen approached the window, 
on which Raleigh had used her gift to inscribe the following 
line :— 

** Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall.” 


The Queen smiled, read it twice over, once with deliberation 
to Lady Paget, and once again to herself. “It is a pretty 
beginning,” she said, after the consideration of a moment or 
two; “but methinks the muse hath deserted the young wit, 
at the very outset of his task. It were good-natured—were it 
not, Lady Paget,—to complete it for him? Try your rhyming 
faculties.” 

Lady Paget, prosaic from her cradle upward, as ever any 
lady of the bedchamber before or after her, disclaimed all poss 
sibility of assisting the young poet. 


192 KENILWORTH. 


“Nay, then, we must sacrifice to the Muses ourselves,” said 
Elizabeth. 

“The incense of no one can be more acceptable,” said Lady 
Paget; “and your highness will impose such obligation on the 
ladies of Parnassus ”’ 

‘“ Hush, Paget,” said the Queen, “ you speak sacrilege against 
the immortal Nine—yet, virgins themselves, they should be 
exorable to a Virgin Queen—and therefore—let me see how 
runs his verse— 


‘Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall.’ 
Might not the answer (for fault of a better) run thus ?}— 


If thy mind fail thee, do not climb at all.” 


The dame of honor uttered an exclamation of joy and 
surprise at so happy a termination ; and certainly a worse has 
been applauded, even when coming from a less distinguished 
author. 

The Queen, thus encouraged, took off a diamond ring, and 
saying, ‘‘ We will give this gallant some cause of marvel, when 
he finds his couplet perfected without his own interference,” 
she wrote her own line beneath that of Raleigh. 

The Queen left the pavilion—but retiring slowly, and often 
looking back, she could see the young cavalier steal, with the 
flight of a lap-wing, toward the place where he had seen her 
make a pause ;—“‘ She stayed but to observe,” as she said, *‘ that 
her train had taken ;” and then, laughing at the circumstance 
with the Lady Paget, she took the way slowly toward the 
palace. Elizabeth, as they returned, cautioned her companion 
not to mention to any one the aid which she had given to the 
young poet—and Lady Paget promised scrupulous secrecy. It 
is to be supposed, that she made a mental reservation in favor 
of Leicester, to whom her ladyship transmitted without delay 
an anecdote so little calculated to give him pleasure. 

Raleigh, in the meanwhile, stole back to the window, and 
read with a feeling of intoxication, the encouragement thus 
given him by the Queen in person to follow out his ambitious 
career, and returned to Sussex and his retinue, then on the 
point of embarking to go up the river, his heart beating high 
with gratified pride, and with hope of future distinction. 

The reverence due to the person of the Earl prevented any 
notice being taken of the reception he had met with at court, 
until they had landed, and the household were assembled in 
the great hall at Say’s Court ; while that lord, exhausted by 


KENILWORTH. 193 


his late illness, and the fatigues of the day, had retired to 
his chamber, demanding the attendance of Wayland, his suc- 
cessful physician. Wayland, however, was nowhere to be 
found ; and, while some of the party were, with military im- 
patience, seeking him, and cursing his absence, the rest flocked 
around Raleigh, to congratulate him on his prospects of court 
favor. 

He had the good taste and judgment to conceal the decisive 
circumstance of the couplet, to which Elizabeth had deigned to 
find a rhyme; but other circumstances had transpired which 
plainly intimated that he had made some progress in the Queen’s 
favor. All hastened to wish him joy on the mended appear- 
ance of his fortune ; some from real regard, some, perhaps, from 
hopes that his preferment might hasten their own ; and most 
from a mixture of these motives, and a sense that the counte- 
nance shown to any one of Sussex’s household, was in fact a 
triumph to the whole. Raleigh returned the kindest thanks to 
them all, disowning, with becoming modesty, that one day’s fair 
reception made a favorite, any more than one swallow a 
summer. But he observed that Blount did not join in the 
general congratulation, and somewhat hurt at his apparent un- 
kindness, he plainly asked him the reason. 

Blount replied with equal sincerity—‘ My good Walter, I 
wish thee as well as do any of these chattering gulls, who are 
whistling and whooping gratulations in thine ear, because it 
seems fair weather with thee. But I fear for thee, Walter” 
(and he wiped his honest eye), “I fear for thee with all my 
heart. These court tricks, and gambols, and flashes of fine 
women’s favor, are the tricks and trinkets that bring fair 
fortunes to farthings, and fine faces and witty coxcombs to the 
acquaintances of dull block and sharp axes.” 

So saying, Blount arose and left the hall, while Raleigh 
looked after him with an expression that blanked for a moment 
his bold and animated countenance. 

Stanley just then entered the hall, and said to Tressilian, 
“My lord is calling for your fellow Wayland, and your fellow 
Wayland is just come hither in a sculler, and is calling for you, 
nor will he go to my lord till he sees you. The fellow looks as 
he were mazed methinks—I would you would see him im- 
mediately.” 

Tressilian instantly left the hall, and causing Wayland Smith 
to be shown into a withdrawing apartment, and lights placed, 
he conducted the artist thither, and was surprised when he 
observed the emotion of his countenance, 


194 KENILWORTH. 


“What is the matter with you, Smith?” said Tressilian, 
“‘have you seen the devil ?” . | | 

“Worse, sir, worse,” replied Wayland, “I have seen a 
basilisk.—Thank God, I saw him first, for being so seen, and 
seeing not me, he will do the less harm.” 

“In God's name, speak sense,” said Tressilian, “ and say 
what you mean !” | 

‘“‘T have seen my old master,” said the artist—“ Last night, 
a friend, whom I had acquired, took me tosee the palace clock, 
judging me to be curious in such works of art. At the window 
of a turret next to the clock-house I saw my old master.” 

‘Thou must have needs been mistaken,” said Tressilian. 

‘JT was not mistaken,” said’: Wayland—* He that once hath 
his features by heart would know him amongst a million. He 
was anticly habited ; but he cannot disguise himself from me, 
God be praised, as I can from him. I will not, however, tempt 
Providence by remaining within his ken. ‘Tarleton the player 
himself could not so disguise himself, but that, sooner or later, 
Doboobie would find him out. I must away to-morrow ; for, 
as we stand together, it were death to me to remain within 
reach of him.” 

‘¢ But the Earl of Sussex ?”’ said Tressilian: 

“He is in little danger from what he has hitherto taken, 
provided he swallow the matter of a bean’s size of the Orvietan 
every morning fasting—but let him beware of a relapse.” 

“* And how is that to be guarded against?” said Tressilian. 

“Only by such caution as you would use against the devil,” 
answered Wayland. ‘Let my lord’s clerk of the kitchen kill 
his lord’s meat himself, and dress it himself, using no spice but 
what he procures from the surest hands—Let the sewer serve 
it up himself, and let the master of my lord’s household see 
that both clerk and sewer taste the dishes which the one dresses 
and the other serves. Let my lord use no perfumes which come 
not from well accredited persons; no unguents—no pomades. 
Let him on no account drink with strangers, or eat fruit with 
them, either in the way of nooning or otherwise. Especially, 
let him observe such caution if he goes to Kenilworth—the 
excuse of his illness, and his being under diet, will, and must, 
cover the strangeness of such practice.” 

* And thou,” said Tressilian, “what dost thou think to 
make of thyself?” 

“France, Spain, either India, East or West, shall be my 
refuge,” said Wayland, “ere I venture my life by residing 
within ken of Doboobie, Demetrius, or whatever else he calls 
himself for the time,” 


KENILWORTH, 195 


“ Well,” said Tressilian, ‘ this happens not inopportunely— 
I had business for you in Berkshire,—but in the opposite ex- 
tremity to the place where thou art known; and ere thou hadst 
found out this new reason for living private, I had settled to 
send thee thither upon a secret embassage.” 

The artist expressed himself willing to receive his com- 
mands, and Tressilian, knowing he was well acquainted with 
the outline of his business at court, frankly explained to him 
the whole, mentioned the agreement which subsisted betwixt 
Giles Gosling and him, and told what had that day been 
averred in the presence-chamber by Varney, and supported by 
Leicester. 

“Thou seest,” he added, “‘ that, in the circumstances in which 
I am placed, it behoves me to keep a narrow watch on: the 
motions of these unprincipled men, Varney and his complices, 
Foster and Lambourne, as well as those of my Lord Leicester 
himself, who, I suspect, is partly a deceiver, and not altogether 
the deceived in that matter. Here is my ring, as a pledge to 
Giles Gosling—here is besides gold, which shall be trebled if 
thou serve me faithfully. Away down to Cumnor, and see 
what happens there.” 

“I go with double good-will,” said the artist, “ first, because 
I serve your honor, who has been so kind to me, and then, 
that I may escape my old master, who, if not an absolute incar- 
nation of the devil, has, at least, as much of the demon about 
him, in will, word, and action, as ever polluted humanity—And 
yet let him take care of me. I fly him now, as heretofore ; 
but if, like the Scottish wild cattle,* I am vexed by frequent 
pursuit, I may turn on him in hate and desperation.—Will your 
honor command my nag to be saddled?” I will but give the 
medicine to my lord, divided in its proper proportions, with 
a few instructions. His safety will then depend on the care of 
his friends and domestics—for the past he is guarded, but let 
him beware of the future.” 

Wayland Smith accordingly made his farewell visit to the 
Earl of Sussex, dictated instructions as to his regimen, and 
precautions concerning his diet, and left Say’s Court without 
waiting for morning. 


* A remnant of the wild cattle of Scotland are preserved at Chillingham 
Castle, near Wooler, in Northumberland, the seat of Lord Tankerville. 
They fly before strangers ; but if disturbed and followed, they turn with fury 
on those who persist in annoying them. 


196 KENILWORT: 


CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. 


——————The moment comes— 
It is already come—when thou must write 
The absolute total of thy life’s vast sum. 
The constellations stand victorious o’er thee, 
The planets shoot good, fortune in fair junctions, 
And tell thee, ‘‘ Now’s the time.” 
-SCHILLER’S WALLENSTEIN, BY COLERIDGE, 


WHEN Leicester returned to his lodging, after a day so im- 
portant and so harassing, in which, after riding out more than 
one gale, and touching on more than one shoal, his bark had 
finally gained the harbor with banner displayed, he seemed 
to experience as much fatigue as a mariner after a perilous 
storm. He spoke not a word while his chamberlain exchanged 
his rich court-mantle for a furred night-robe, and when this 
officer signified that Master Varney desired to speak with his 
lordship, he replied only by a sullen nod. Varney, however, 
entered, accepting this signal as a permission, and the cham- 
berlain withdrew. 

The Earl remained silent and almost motionless in his chair, 
his head reclined on his hand, and his elbow resting upon. the 
table which stood beside him, without seeming to be conscious 
of the entrance, or of the presence, of his confidant. Varney 
waited for some minutes until he should speak, desirous to 
know what was the finally predominant mood of a mind, 
through which so many powerful emotions had that day taken 
their course. But he waited in vain, for Leicester continued 
still silent, and the confidant saw himself under the necessity 
of being the first to speak. ‘ May I congratulate your lord- 
ship,” he said, “‘ on the deserved superiority you have this day 
attained over your most formidable rival ? ” 

Leicester raised his head, and answered sadly, but without 
anger, “ Thou, Varney, whose ready invention has involved me 
in a web of most mean and perilous falsehood, knowest best 
what small reason there is for gratulation on the subject.” 

‘‘ Do. you blame me, my lord,” said Varney, “ for not betray- 
ing, on the first push, the secret on which your fortunes 
depended, and which you have so oft and so earnestly recom- 
mended to my safe keeping? Your lordship was present in 
person, and might have contradicted me and ruined yourself 


KENILWORTH. 197 


by an avowal of the truth; but surely it was no part of a 
faithful servant to have done so without your commands.” 

“I cannot deny it, Varney,” said the Earl, rising and 
walking across the room ; “ my own ambition has been traitor 
to my love.” 

“ Say rather, my lord, that your love has been traitor to 
your greatness, and barred you from such a prospect of honor 
and power as the world cannot offer to any other. To make 
my honored !ady a countess, you have missed the chance of 
being yourself ” 

He paused and seemed unwilling to complete the sentence. 

“Of being myself what ?” demanded Leicester ; “ speak 
out thy meaning, Varney.” 

‘““Of being yourself a KING, my lord,” replied Varney ; 
“and King of England to boot !—It is no treason to our Queen 
to say so. It would have chanced by her obtaining that which 
all true subjects wish her—a lusty, noble, and gallant husband.” 

“Thou ravest, Varney,’’ answered Leicester. ‘“ Besides, 
our times have seen enough to make men loathe the Crown 
Matrimonial which men take from their wives’ lap. There was 
Darnley of Scotland.” 

“He ?”’’ said Varney ; “a gull, a fool, a thrice sodden ass, 
whe suffered himself to be fired off into the air like a rocket on 
a rejoicing day. Had Mary had the hap to have wedded the 
noble Earl, ozce destined to share ‘her throne, she had expe- 
rienced a husband of different metal ; and her husband had 
found in her a wife as complying and loving as the mate of the 
meanest squire, who follows the hounds a-horseback, and holds 
her husband’s bridle as he mounts.” 

“It might have been as thou sayest, Varney,” said Leicester, 
a brief smile of self-satisfaction passing over his anxious counte- 
nance. ‘ Henry Darnley knew little of women—with Mary, 
a man who knew her sex might have had some chance of 
holding his own. But not with Elizabeth, Varney—for I think 
God, when he gave her the heart of a woman, gave her the 
head of a man to control its follies—No, I know her. She 
will accept love-tokens, ay, and requite them with the like— 
put sugared sonnets in her bosom,—ay, and answer them to— 
push gallantly to the very verge where it becomes exchange of 
affection—but she writes 7z/ w/tra to all which is to follow, and 
would not barter one iota of her own supreme power for all the 
alphabet of both Cupid and Hymen.” 

“The better for you, my lord,” said Varney, “ that is, in the 
case supposed, if such be her disposition ; since you think you 
Cannot aspire to become her husband, Her favorite you are, 


198 KENILWORTH. 


and may remain, if the lady at Cumnor Place continues in hef 
present obscurity.” 

“Poor Amy!” said Leicester, with a deep sigh ; “she de- 
sires so earnestly to be acknowledged in presence of God and 
man ! ” 

‘‘ Ay, but, my lord,” said Varney, ‘‘is her desire reasonable? 
—that is the question.—Her religious scruples are solved—she 
is an honored and beloved wife—enjoying the society of her 
husband at such times as his weightier duties permit him to af- 
ford her his company—What would she more? I am right 
sure that a lady so gentle and so loving would consent to live 
her life through in a certain obscurity—which is, after all, not 
dimmer than when she was at Lidcote Hall—rather than di- 
minish the least jot of her lord’s honors and greatness by a pre- 
mature attempt to share them.” 

‘“‘ There is something in what thou sayest,” said Leicester ; 
“and her appearance here were fatal—yet she must be seen 
at Kenilworth; Elizabeth will not forget that she has so ap- 
pointed.” 

“‘ Let me sleep on that point,” said Varney ; “ I cannot else 
perfect the device I have on the stithy, which I trust will satisfy 
the Queen and please my honored lady, yet leave this fatal 
secret where it is now buried.—Has your lordship further com- 
mands for the night ?” 

‘“‘T would be alone,” said Leicester, ‘“ Leave me, and place 
my steel casket on the table-—Be within summons.” 

Varney retired—and the Earl, opening the window of his 
apartment, looked out long and anxiously upon the brilliant 
host of stars which glimmered in the splendor of a summer 
firmament. ‘The words burst from him as at unawares—‘ I 
had never more need that the heavenly bodies should befriend 
me, for my earthly path is darkened and confused.” 

It is well known that the age reposed a deep confidence in 
the vain predictions of judicial astrology, and Leicester, though 
exempt from the general control of superstition, was not in this 
respect superior to his time; but, on the contrary, was remark- 
able for the encouragement which he gave to the professors of 
the pretended science. Indeed, the wish to pry into futurity, 
so general among the human race, is peculiarly to be found 
amongst those who trade in state mysteries, and the dangerous 
intrigues and cables of courts. With heedful precaution to see 
that it had not been opened, or its locks tampered with, Leices- 
ter applied a key to the steel casket, and drew from it, first, 
a parcel of gold pieces, which he put into a silk purse; then 
a parchment inscribed with planetary signs, and the lines and 


KENILWORTH. 199 


calculations used in framing horoscopes, on which he gazed in- 
tently for afew moments; and lastly, took forth a large key, 
which, lifting aside the tapestry, he applied to a little concealed 
door in the corner of the apartment, and opening it, disclosed 
a stair constructed in the thickness of the wall. 

“ Alasco,” said the Earl, with a voice raised, yet no higher 
raised than to be heard by the inhabitant of the small turret to 
which the stair conducted—“ Alasco, I say, descend.” 

“T come, my lord,” answered a voice from above. ‘The foot 
of an aged man was heard slowly descending the narrow stair, 
and Alasco entered the Earl’s apartment. The astrologer was 
a little man, and seemed much advanced in age, for his beard 
was long and white, and reached over his black doublet down 
to his silken girdle. His hair was of the same venerable hue. 
But his eyebrows were as dark as the keen and piercing black 
eyes which they shaded, and this peculiarity gave a wild and 
singular cast to the physiognomy of the old man. His cheek 
was still fresh and ruddy, and the eyes we have mentioned re- 
sembled those of a rat in acuteness, and even fierceness of ex- 
pression. His manner was not without a sort of dignity; and 
the interpreter of the stars, though respectful, seemed altogether 
at his ease, and even assumed a tone of instruction and com- 
mand in conversing with the prime favorite of Elizabeth. 

“Your prognostications have failed, Alasco,” said the Earl, 
when they had exchanged salutations—“ He is recovering.” 

“My son,” replied the astrologer, “let me remind you, I 
warranted not his death—nor is there any prognostication that 
can be derived from the heavenly bodies, their aspects and their 
conjunctions, which is not liable to be controlled by the will of 
Heaven. Astra regunt homines, sede git astra Deus.” 

“Of what avail, then, is your mystery ? ” inquired the Earl. 

“Of much, my son,” replied the old man, “ since it can show 
the natural and probable course of events, although that course 
moves in subordination to a Higher Power. ‘Thus, in reviewing 
the horoscope which your lordship subjected to my skill, you 
will observe that Saturn, being in the sixth House in opposi- 
tion to Mars, retrograde in the House of Life, cannot but de- 
note long and dangerous sickness, the issue whereof is the will 
of Heaven, though death may probably be inferred—Yet if I 
knew the name of the party, I would erect another scheme.” 

“Flis name is a secret,” said the Earl; “yet I must own 
thy prognostication hath not been unfaithful. He has been 
sick, and dangerously so, not however to death. But hast thou 
again cast my horoscope as Varney directed thee, and art thou 
prepared to say what the stars tell of my present fortune ? ” 


200 KENILWORTH. 


““ My art stands at yourcommand,” said the old man; “and 
here, my son, is the map of thy fortunes, brilliant in aspect as 
ever beamed from those blessed signs whereby our life is in- 
fluenced, yet not uncheckered with fears, difficulties, and 
dangers.” 

‘My lot were more than mortal were it otherwise,” said the 
Earl; “proceed, father, and believe you speak with one ready 
to undergo his destiny in action and in passion as may beseem 
a noble of England.” 

“Thy courage to do and to suffer must be wound up yet a 
strain higher,” said the old man. “The stars intimate yet a 
prouder title, yet a higher rank. It is for thee to guess their 
meaning, not for me to name it.” 

“Name it, I conjure you—name it, I command you,” said 
the Earl, his eyes brightening as he spoke.” 

““T may not, and I will not,” replied the old man. “The 
ire of princes is as the wrath of the lion. But mark, and judge 
for thyself. Here Venus, ascendant in the House of Life, and 
conjoined with Sol, showers down that flood of silver light, 
blent with gold, which promises power, wealth, dignity—all 
that the proud heart of man desires, and in such abundance, 
that never the future Augustus of that old and mighty Rome 
heard from his Haruspices such a tale of glory as from this rich 
text my lore might read to my favorite son.” 

“Thou dost but jest with me, father,” said the Earl, aston- 
ished at the strain of enthusiasm in which the astrologer deliv- 
ered his prediction. 

“Ts it for him to jest who hath his eye on heaven, who hath 
his foot in the grave?” returned the old man solemnly. 

The Earl made two or three strides through the apartment, 
with his hand outstretched, as one who follows the beckoning 
signal of some phantom, waving him on to deeds of high im- 
port. As he turned, however, he caught the eye of the astrol- 
oger fixed on him, while an observing glance of the most 
shrewd penetration shot from under the penthouse of his 
shaggy dark eyebrows. Leicester’s haughty and suspicious 
soul at once caught fire; he darted toward the old man from 
the further end of the lofty apartment, only standing still when 
his extended hand was within a foot of the astrologer’s 
body. 

“Wretch!” he said, “if you dare to palter with me I will 
have your skin stripped from your living flesh!—Confess thou 
hast been hired to deceive and to betray me—that thou art a 
cheat, and I thy silly prey and booty!” 

The old man exhibited some symptoms of emotion, but not 


KENILWORTH. 801 


more’ than the furious deportment of his patron might have ex 
torted from innocence itself. 

“What means this violence, my lord?” he answered, “ or 
in what can I have deserved it at your hands ? ” 

“ Give me proof,” said the Earl vehemently, “ that you have 
not tampered with mine enemies.” 

“My lord,” replied the old man, with dignity, “you can 
have no better proof than that which you yourse!f elected. In 
that turret I have spent the last twenty-four hours, under the 
key which has been in your own custody. The hours of dark- 
ness I have spent in gazing on the heavenly bodies with these 
dim eyes, and during those of light I have toiled this aged 
brain to compiete the calculation arising from their combina 
tions. Earthly food I have not tasted—earthly voice I have 
not heard—you are yourself aware I had no means of doing so 
—and yet I tell you—I who have been thus shut up in solitude 
and study—that within these twenty-four hours your star has 
become predominant in the horizon, and either the bright book 
of heaven speaks false, or there must have beef a proportion- 
ate revolution in your fortunes upon earth. If nothing has 
happened within that space to secure your power, or advance 
your favor, then I am indeed a cheat, and the divine art, 
which was first devised in the plains of Chaldea, is a foul 
imposture.”’ 

“Tt is true,” said Leicester, after a moment’s reflection, 
“thou wert closely immured—and it is also true that the change 
has taken place in my situation which thou sayest the horo- 
scope indicates.” 

“Wherefore this distrust, then, my son?” said the astrologer, 
assuming a tone of admonition; “the celestial intelligences 
brook not diffidence, even in their favorites.” 

“Peace, father,” answered Leicester, “I: have’ erred in 
doubting thee. Not to mortal man, nor to celestial intelligence 
—under that which is supreme—will Dudley’s lips say more in 
condescension or apology. Speak rather to the present purpose 
—Amid these bright promises, thou hast said there was a 
threatening aspect—Can thy skill tell whence, or by whose 
means, such danger seems to impend ? ” 

“Thus far only,’ answered the astrologer, “does my art 
enable me to answer your query., The infortune is threatened 
by the malignant and adverse aspect, through means of a youth 
—and, as I think, a rival; but whether in love or in prince’s 
favor, I know not; nor can I give further indication respecting 
him, save that he comes from the western quarter.” 

“ The western—ha !” replied Leicester, “it is enough—the 


202 KENILWORTH. 


tempest does indeed brew in that quarter !—Cornwall and 
Devon—Raleigh and Tressilian—one of them is indicated—I 
must beware of both—Father, if I have done thy skill injustice, 
I will make thee a lordly recompense.” 

He took a purse of gold from the strong casket which stood 
before him. ‘ Have thou double the recompense which Varney 
promised.—Be faithful—be secret—obey the directions thou 
shalt receive from my master of the horse, and grudge not a 
little seclusion or restraint in my cause—it shall be richly con- 
sidered.—Here, Varney—conduct this venerable man to thine 
own lodging—tend him heedfully in all things, but see that he 
holds communication with no one.” 

Varney bowed, and the astrologer kissed the Earl’s hand in 
token of adieu, and followed the master of the horse to another 
apartment, in which were placed wine and refreshments for his 
use. 

The astrologer sat down to his repast, while Varney shut 
two doors with great precaution, examined the tapestry, lest 
any listener lurked behind it; and then, sitting down opposite 
to the sage, began to question him. 

“Saw you my signal from the court beneath?” 

“T did,” said Alasco, for by such name he was at present 
called, ‘‘ and shaped the horoscope accordingly.” 

“‘ And it passed upon the patron without challenge?” con- 
tinued Varney. 

“Not without challenge,” replied the old man, “but it did 
pass ; and I added, as before agreed, danger from a discovered 
secret, and a western youth.” 

‘“‘ My lord’s fear will stand sponsor to the one, and his con- 
science to the other, of these prognostications,” replied Varney. 
‘“‘ Sure never man chose torun sucha race as his, yet continued 
to retain those silly scruples! I am fain to cheat him to his 
own profit. But touching your matters, sage interpreter of the 
stars, | can tell you more of your own fortune than plan or 
figure can show. You must be gone from hence forthwith.” 

“TJ will not,’ said Alasco, peevishly. ‘‘I have been too 
much hurried up and down of late—immured for day and night 
in a desolate turret-chamber—I must enjoy my liberty, and 
pursue my studies which are of more import than the fate 
of fifty statesmen, and favorites, that rise and burst like 
bubbles in the atmosphere of a court.” 

“ At your pleasure,” said Varney, with a sneer that habit 
had rendered familiar to his features, and which forms the 
principal characteristic which painters have assigned to that of 
Satan— At your pleasure,” he said; ‘you may enjoy your 


KENILWORTH, 203 


liberty and your studies until the daggers of Sussex’s followers 
are clashing within your doublet, and against your ribs.” ‘The 
old man turned pale, and Varney proceeded. ‘‘ Wot you not 
he hath offered a reward for the arch-quack and poison-vender, 
Demetrius, who sold certain precious spices to his lordship’s 
cook ?—What! turn you pale, old friend ? Does Halli already 
see an infortune in the House of Life >—Why, hark thee, we 
will have thee down to an old house of mine in the country, 
where thou shalt live with a hob-nailed slave, whom thy alchemy 
may convert into ducats, for to such conversion alone is thy 
art serviceable.” 

“Tt is false, thou foul-mouthed railer,” said Alasco, shaking 
with impotent anger; “‘it is well known that I have approached 
more nearly to projection than any hermetic artist who now 
lives. ‘There are not six chemists in the world who possess so 
hear an approximation to the grand arcanum ” 

“Come, come,” said Varney, interrupting him, ‘‘ what means 
this, in the name of heaven? Do we not know one another? 
I believe thee to be so perfect—so very perfect in the mystery 
of cheating, that having imposed upon all mankind, thou hast 
at length, in some measure, imposed upon thyself ; and without 
ceasing to dupe others, hast become a species of dupe to thine 
own imagination. Blush notfor it, man—thou art learned, and 
shalt have classical comfort :— 


* Ne quisquam Ajacem possit superare nisi Ajax.’ 


No one but thyseli could have gulled thee—and thou hast 
gulled the whole brotherhood of the Rosy Cross beside—none 
so deep in the mystery as thou. But hark thee in thine ear; 
had the seasoning which spiced Sussex’s broth wrought more 
surely, I would have thought better of the chemical science 
thou dost boast so highly.” 

“Thou art a hardened villain, Varney,” replied Alasco ; 
“many will do those things, who dare not speak of them.” 

‘And many speak of them who dare not do them,” an- 
swered Varney; “but be not wroth—I will not quarrel with 
thee—If I did, I were fain to live on eggs for a month, that I 
might feed without fear. Tell me at once, how came thine art 
to fail thee at this great emergency?” 

“The Earl of Sussex’s horoscope intimates,” replied the 
astrologer, “that the sign of the ascendant being in combus 
tion ” 

“ Away with your gibberish,” replied Varney ; think’st thou 
it is the patron thou speak’st with ?” 


204 KENILWORTH. 


“‘T crave your pardon,” replied the old man, “ and swear ta 
you, I know but one medicine that could have saved the Earl’s 
life; and as no man livingin England knows that antidote save 
myself, moreover, as the ingredients, one of them in particular, 
are scarce possible to be come by, I must needs suppose his 
escape was owing to such a constitution of lungs and vital 
parts, as was never before bound up in a body of clay.” 

“There was some talk of a quack who waited upon him,” 
said Varney, after a moment’s reflection. ‘“‘ Are you sure there 
is no one in England who has this secret of thine?” 

“One man there was,” said the doctor, “‘once my servant, 
who might have stolen this of me, with one or two other secrets 
of art. But content you, Master Varney, it is no part of my 
policy to suffer such interlopers to interfere in my trade. He 
pries into no mysteries more, I warrant you; for as I well be- 
lieve, he hath been wafted to heaven on the wing of a fiery 
dragon—Peace be with him !—But in this retreat of mine, shall 
I have the use of mine elaboratory?”’ 

““Of a whole workshop, man,” said Varney: ‘for a rever- 
end father Abbot, who was fain to give place to bluff King 
Hal, and some of his courtiers, a score of years since, had a 
chemist’s complete apparatus, which he was obliged to leave 
behind him to his successors. Thou shalt there occupy, and 
melt, and puff, and blaze, and multiply, until the Green Dragon 
become a golden goose, or whatever the newer phrase of the 
brotherhood may testify.” 

“Thou art right, Master Varney,” said the alchemist, set- 
ting his teeth close, and grinding them together—‘“ thou art 
right even in thy very contempt of right and reason. For what 
thou sayest in mockery, may in sober verity chance to happen 
ere we meet again. If the most venerable sages of ancient 
days have spoken the truth—if the most learned of our own 
have rightly received it—If I have been accepted wherever I 
traveled in Germany, in Poland, in Italy, and in the further 
Tartary, as one to whom nature has unveiled her darkest seerets 
—If I have acquired the most secret signs and passwords of 
the Jewish Cabala, so that the grayest beard in the synagogue 
would brush the steps to make them clean for me—if all this 
is so, and if there remains but one step—one little step—be. 
twixt my long, aeep, and dark, and subterranean progress, and 
that blaze of light which shall show Nature watching her rich- 
est and her most glorious productions in the very cradle—one 
step betwixt dependence and the power of sovereignty—one 
step betwixt poverty and such a sum of wealth as earth, with. 
out that noble secret, cannot minister from all her mines ip 


KENILWORTH. 208 


the old or the new-foind world—if this be all so, is it not rea- 
sonable that to this I dedicate my future life, secure, for a 
brief period of studious patience, to rise above the mean de: 
pendence upon favorites, and their favorites, by which I am 
now enthralled!” 

““Now, bravo! bravo! my good father,” said Varney, with 
the usual sardonic expression of ridicule on his countenance ,; 
‘vet all this approximation to the philosopher’s stone wringeth 
not one single crown out of my Lord Leicester’s pouch, and far 
less out of Richard Varney’s— We must have earthly and sub- 
stantial services, man, and care not who else thou canst delude 
with thy philosophical charlatanry.” 

‘““My son, Varney,” said the alchemist, “the unbelief, 
gathered around thee like a frost fog, hath dimmed thine acute 
perception to that which is a stumbling-block to the wise, and 
which yet, to him,who seeketh knowledge with humility, extends 
a lesson so clear, that he who runs may read. Hath not Art, 
think’st thou, the means of completing Nature’s imperfect con- 
coctions in her attempts to form the precious metals, even as 
by art we can perfect those other operations, of incubation, dis- 
tillation, fermentation, and similar processes of an ordinary de- 
scription, by which we extract life itself out of a senseless egg, 
summon purity and vitality out of muddy dregs, or call into 
vivacity the inert substance of a slug gish liquid ?” 

“T have heard all this before,” said Varney, “‘ and my heart 
is proof against such cant ever since I sent twenty good gold 
pieces (marry it was in the nonage of my wit) to advance the 
grand magisteriun, all which, God help the while, vanished zz 
fumo. Since that moment, when I paid for my freedom, I defy 
chemistry, astrology, palmistry, and every other occult art, were 
it as secret as hell itself, to unloose the structure of my purse- 
strings. Marry, I neither defy the manna of Saint Nicholas, 
nor can I dispense with-it. Thy first task must be to prepare 
some when thou getst down to my little sequestered retreat 
yonder, and then make as much gold as thou wilt.” 

**T will make no more of that dose,” replied the alchemist 
resolutely. 

“Then,” said the master of the horse, ‘‘ thou shalt be hanged 
for what thou hast made already, and so were the great secret 
forever lost to mankind.—Do not humanity this injustice, good 
father, but e’en bend to thy destiny, and make us an ounce or two 
of this same stuff, which cannot prejudice above one or two indi- 
viduals, in order to gain life-time to discover the universal me- 
dicine, which shall clear away all mortal diseases at once. But 
cheer up, thou grave, learned, and most melancholy jackanape! 


206 KENILWORTH, 


Hast thou not told me, that a moderate portion of thy drug hath 
mild effects, no ways ultimately dangerous to the human frame, 
but which produces depression of spirits, nausea, headache, an 
unwillingness to change of place—even such a state of temper 
as would keep a bird from flying out of a cage, were the door 
left open?” 

‘“‘T have said so, and it is true,” said the alchemist; “ this 
effect will it produce, and the bird who partakes of it in such 
proportion, shall sit for a season drooping on her perch, with: 
out thinking of the free blue sky, or of the fair greenwood 
though the one be lighted by the rays of the rising sun, and the 
other ringing with the newly-awakened song of all the feathered 
inhabitants of the forest.” 

‘“‘ And this without danger to life?” said Varney, somewhat 
anxiously. 

‘“‘ Ay, so that preportion and measure be not exceeded; and 
so that one who knows the nature of the manna be ever near to 
watch the symptoms, and succor in case of need.” 

“Thou shalt regulate the whole,” said Varney ; “ thy reward 
shall be princely, if thou keep’st time and touch, and exceedest 
not the due proportion, to the prejudice of her health—other- 

wise thy punishment shall be as signal.” 
“The prejudice of er health!” repeated Alasco; “it is, 
then, a woman I am to use my skill upon?” 

‘No, thou fool,” replied Varney; “said I not it was a bird 
—a reclaimed linnet, whose pipe might soothe a hawk when in 
mid stoop ?—I see thine eyes sparkle, and I know thy beard is 
not altogether so white as art has made it, ¢#az, at least, thou 
hast been able to transmute to silver. But mark me, this 1s no 
mate for thee. This caged bird is dear to one who brooks no 
rivalry, and far less such rivalry as thine, and her health must 
over all things be cared for. But she is in the case of being 
commanded down to yonder Kenilworth revels; and it is most 
expedient—most needful—most necessary, that she fly not 
thither. Of these necessities and their causes, it is not needful 
that she should know aught, and it is to be thought that her 
own wish may lead her to combat all ordinary reasons which 
can be urged for her remaining a housekeeper.” 

‘¢ That is but natural,” said the alchemist, with a strange 
smile, which yet bore a greater reference to the human charac- 
ter, than the uninterested and abstracted gaze which his physiog- 
nomy had hitherto expressed, where all seemed to refer to some 
world distant from that which was existing around him, 

“Tt is so,” answered Varney; “you understand women 
well, though it may have been long since you were conversant 


’ 


KENILWORTH. | 207 


amongst them.—Well, then, she is not to be contradicted—yet 
she is not to be humored. Understand me—a slight illness, 
sufficient to take away the desire of removing from thence, and 
to make such of your wise fraternity as may be called into aid, 
recommend a quiet residence at home, will, in one word, be 
esteemed good service, and remunerated as such.” 

“T am not to be asked to affect the House of Life?” said 
the chemist. 

“On the contrary, we will have thee hanged if thou dost,” 
replied Varney. . 

“And I must,” added Alasco, “have opportunity to do my 
turn, and all facilities for concealment or escape, should there 
be detection ?” 

“ All, all, and everything, thou infidel in all but the impos- 
sibilities of alchemy.—Why, man, for what dost thou take 
Tee 

‘The old man rose, and taking a light, walked toward the 
end of the apartment, where was a door that led to the small 
sleeping room destined for his reception during the night.— 
At the door he turned round, and slowly repeated Varney’s 
question ere he answered it. “For what do I take thee, 
Richard Varney ?—Why, for a worse devil than I have been 
myself. But I am in your toils, and I must serve you till my 
term be out.” 

“Well, well,” answered Varney, hastily, “ be stirring with 
gray light. It may be we shall not need thy medicine—Do 
nought till I myself come down—Michael Lambourne shall 
guide you to the place of your destination.” * 

When Varney heard the adept’s door shut and carefully 
bolted within, he stepped toward it, with similar precau- 
tion carefully locked it on the outside, andtook the key from 
the lock, muttering to himself, ‘‘ Worse than ¢/ee, thou poison- 
ing quacksalver and witch-monger, who,if thou art not a 
bounden slave to the devil, it is only because he disdains such 
an apprentice! J am a mortal man, and seek by mortal means 
the gratification of my passions and advancement of my pros- 
pects—Thou art a vassal of hell itself—So ho, Lambourne ! ” 
he called at another door, and Michael made his appearance 
with a flushed cheek and an unsteady step. 

“Thou art drunk, thou villain!” said Varney to him. 

“Doubtless, noble sir,” replied the unabashed Michael, “ we 
have been drinking all even to the glories of the day, and to 
my noble Lord of Leicester, and his valiant master of the 


* Note G. Dr. Julio. 


oy 


208 | KENILWORTH. 


horse.—Drunk! odds blades and poniards, he that would re- 
fuse to swallow a dozen healths on such an evening, in a base 
besognio, and a puckfoist, and shall swallow six-inches of my 
dagger ! ” 

rg? Hark ye, scoundrel,” said Varney, “‘be sober on the in- 
stant—I command thee. I. know thou canst throw off thy 
drunken folly, like a fool’s coat, at pleasure; and if not, it 
were the worse for thee.” 

Lambourne. dropped his head, left the apartment, and re- 
turned in two or three minutes, with his face composed, his 
hair adjusted, his dress in order, and exhibiting as great a 
difference from his former self as if the whole man had been 
changed. 

‘““Art thou sober now, and dost thou comprehend me? ” 
said Varney, sternly. 

Lambourne bowed in acquiescence. 

“Thou must presently down to Cumnor Place with the rev- 
erend man of art, who sleeps yonder in the little vaulted 
chamber. Here is the key, that thou mayest call him by times. 
Take another trusty fellow with you. Use him well on the 
journey, but let him not escape you—pistol him if he attempt 
it, and I will be your warrant. I will give thee letters to 
Foster. ‘The doctor is to occupy the lower apartments of the 
eastern quadrangle, with freedom to use the old elaboratory 
and its implements.—He is to have no access to the lady but 
such as I shall point out—only she may be amused to see his 
philosophical jugglery. Thou wilt await at Cumnor Place my 
further orders; and as thou livest, beware of the ale-bench and 
the aquavite flask. Each breath drawn in Cumnor Place must 
be kept severed from common air.” 

“ Enough, my lord—I mean my worshipful master—soon, 
I trust, to be my worshipful-knightly master. You have given 
me my lesson and my license; I will execute the one, and not 
abuse the other. I will be in the saddle by daybreak.” 

“ Do so, and deserve favor,—Stay—ere thou goest fill me 
a cup of wine—not out of that flask, sirrah,’—-as Lambourne 
was pouring out from that which Alasco had left half finished, 
“fetch me a fresh one.” 

Lambourne obeyed, and Varney, after rinsing his mouth with 
the liquor, drank a full cup, and said, as he took up a lamp to 
retreat to his sleeping apartment, “It is strange—I amas little 
the slave of fancy as any one, yet I never speak for a few minutes 
with this fellow Alasco, but my mouth and lungs feel as if soiled 
with these fumes of calcined arsenic—pah !” 

So saying, he left the apartment. Lambourne lingered, to 


oo: = 


KENILWORTH. 209) 


drink a cup of the freshly opened flask. “It is from Saint 
John’s-Berg,” he said, as he paused in the draught to enjoy its 
flavor, “and has the true relish of the violet. But I must for- 
bear it now, that I may one day drink it at my own pleasure.” 
And he quaffed a goblet of water to quench the fumes of the 
Rhenish wine, retired slowly toward the door, made a pause, 
and then, finding the temptation irresistible, walked hastily 
back, and took another long pull at the wine flask, without the 
formality of a cup. 

“Were it not for this accursed custom,” he said, “I might 
climb as high as Varney himself. But who can climb when the 
room turns round with him likea parish-top? I would the 
distance were greater, or the road rougher, betwixt my hand 
and mouth !—But I will drink nothing to-morrow save water— 
nothing save fair water.” 


CHAPTER NINETEENTH. 


Fistol.—And tidings do I bring, and lucky joys, 
And happy news of price. 
Fatstaff—I! prithee now deliver them like to men of this world. 
Fistol—A foutra for the world, and worldings base! 
I speak of Africa, and golden joys. 
HENRY IV. Part 2. 


THE public room of the Black Bear at Cumnor, to which the 
scene of our story now returns, boasted, on the evening which 
we treat of, no ordinary assemblage of guests. There had been 
a fair in the neighborhood, and the cutting mercer of Abing- 
don, with some of the other personages whom the reader has 
already been made acquainted with, as friends and customers 
of Giles Gosling, had already formed their wonted circle around 
the evening fire, and were talking over the news of the day. 

A lively, bustling, arch fellow, whose pack and oaken e// 
wand, studded duly with brass points, denoted him to be of 
Autolycus’s profession, occupied a good deal of the attention 
and furnished much of the amusement, of the evening. The 
pedlers of those days, it must be remembered, were men of far 
greater importance than the degenerate and degraded hawkers 
of our modern times. It was by means of these peripatetic 
vendors that the country trade, in the finer manufactures used 
in female dress particularly, was almost entirely carried on; 
and if a merchant of this description arrived at the dignity of 


210 7 KENILWORTH, 


traveling witn a pack-horse, he was a person of no small con 
sequence, and company for the most substantial yeoman or 
Franklin whom he might meet in his wanderings. 

The pedler of whom we speak bore, accordingly, an active, 
and unrebuked share in the merriment to which the rafters of 
the bonny Black Bear ofCumnor resounded. He had his smile 
with pretty Mistress Cicely, his broad laugh with mine host, 
and his jest upon dashing Master Goldthred, who, though 
indeed without any such benevolent intention on his own part, 
was the general butt of the evening. ‘The pedler and he were 
closely engaged in a dispute upon the preference due to the 
Spanish nether-stock over the black Gascoigne hose, and mine 
host had just winked to the guest around him, as who should 
say, “ You will have mirth presently, my masters,” when the 
trampling of Lorses was heard in the courtyard, and the hostler 
was loudly summoned, with a few of the newest oaths then in 
vogue, to add force to the invocation. Out tumbled Will 
Hostler, John Tapster, and all the militia of. the inn, who had 
slunk from their posts in order to collect some scattered crumbs 
of the mirth which was flying about among the customers. 
Out into the yard sallied mine host himself also, to do fitting 
salutation to his new guests ; and presently returned, ushering 
into the apartment his own worthy nephew, Michael Lambourne, 
pretty tolerably drunk, and having under his escort the astrol- 
oger. Alasco, though still a little old man, had, by altering 


his gown to a riding-dress, trimming his beard and eyebrows, 


and so forth, struck at least a score of years from his apparent 
age, and might now seem an active man of sixty, or little up- 
ward. He appeared at present exceedingly anxious, and had 
insisted much with Lambourne that they should not enter the 
inn, but go straight forward to the place of their destination. 
But Lambourne would not be controled. ‘“ By Cancer and 
Capricorn,” he vociferated, ‘‘and the whole heavenly host— 
besides all the stars that these blessed eyes of mine have seen 
sparkle in the southern heavens, to which these northern blinkers 
are but farthing candles, I will be unkindly for no one’s humor 
—I will stay and salute my worthy uncle here.—Chesu { that 
good blood should ever be forgotten betwixt friends !—A 
gallon of your best, uncle, and let it go round to the health of 
the noble Earl of Leicester!—What! shall we not collogue 
together, and warm the cockles of our ancient kindness ?~ 
Shall we not collogue, I say ?” | 
“With all my heart, kinsman,” said mine host, who ob- 
viously wished to be rid of him; “ but are you to stand shot to 
all this good liquor 2,” sf 


KENILWORTH. etl 


This is a question has quelled many a jovial toper, but it 
moved not the purpose of Lambourne’s soul. ‘Question my 
means, nuncle!” he said, producing a handful of mixed gold 
and silver pieces; ‘‘ Question Mexico and Peru—question the 
Queen’s exchequer—God save her Majesty !—She is my good 
lord’s good mistress.” 

* Well, kinsman,” said mine host, ‘‘it is my business to sell 
wine to those who can buy it—So, Jack Tapster, do me thine 
office.—But I would I knew how to come by money as lightly 
as thou dost, Mike.” 

“Why, uncle,’’ said Lambourne, “I will tell thee a secret— 
Dost see this little old fellow here? as old and withered a 
chip as ever the devil put into his porridge—and yet, uncle, 
between you and me—he hath Potosi in that brain of his— 
*Sblood ! he can coin ducats faster than I can vent oaths,” 

“J will have none of his coinage in my purse though, 
Michael,” said mine host; “I know what belongs to falsifying 
the Queen’s coin.” 

“Thou art an ass, uncle, for as old as thou art—Pull me 
not by the skirts, doctor, thou art an ass thyself to boot—so, 
being both asses, I tell ye I spoke but metaphorically.” 

‘““Are you mad?” said the old man; ‘is the devil in you? 
—can you not let us begone without drawing all men’s eyes 
on us?” 

“ Say’st thou?” said Lambourne ; ‘‘thou art deceived now 
—no man shall see you an I give the word.—By heavens, 
masters, an any one dare to look on this old gentleman, I will 
slash the eyes out of his head with my poniard !—So sit down, 
old friend, and be merry—these are mine ingles—mine ancient 
inmates, and will betray no man.” 

“Had you not better withdraw to a private apartment, 
nephew?” said Giles Gosling; “you speak strange matter,” 
he added, “‘and there be intelligencers everywhere.” 

“TI care not for them,” said the magnanimous Michael— 
“intelligencers ? pshaw !—I serve the noble Earl of Leicester 
—Here comes the wine—Fill round, Master Skinker, a 
carouse to the health of the flower of England, the noble Ear] 
of Leicester! I say, the noble Earl of Leicester! He _ that 
does me not reason is a swine of Sussex, and I’Jl make him 
kneel to the pledge, if I should cut his hams, and smoke them 
for bacon.” 

None disputed a pledge given under such formidable pen- 
alties; and Michael Lambourne, whose drunken humor was 
not of course diminished by this new potation, went on in the 
same wild way, renewing his acquaintance with such of the 


912 KENILWORTH. 


guests as he had formerly known, and experiencing a recep< 
tion in which there was now something of deference, mingled 
with a good deal of fear; for the least ser itor of the favorite 
Earl, especially such a man as Lambourne, was, for very 
sufficient reasons, an object both of the one and of the other. 

In the meanwhile, the old man, seeing his guide in this un- 
controlable humor, ceased to remonstrate with him, and 
sitting down in the most obscure corner of the room, called 
for a small measure of sack, over which he seemed, as it were, 
to slumber, withdrawing himself as much as possible from 
general observation, and doing nothing which could recall his 
existence to the recollection of his fellow-traveler, who by this 
time had got into close intimacy with his ancient comrade, 
Goldthred of Abingdon. 

‘Never believe me, bully Mike,” said the mercer, “if I am 
not as glad to see thee as ever I was to see a customer’s 
money !—Why, thou canst give a friend a sly place at a mask 
or a revel now, Mike; ay, or I warrant thee, thou canst say in 
my lord’s ear, when my honorable lord is down in these parts, 
and wants a Spanish ruff or the like—thou canst say in his 
ear, There is mine old friend, young Lawrence Goldthred of 
Abingdon, has as good wares, lawn, tiffany, cambric, and so 
forth——ay, and is as pretty a piece of man’s flesh, too, as is in 
Berkshire, and will ruffle it for your lordship with any man of: 
his inches; and thou mayest say ’’——— 

“*T can say a hundred d—d ilies, besides, mercer,” answered 
Lambourne ; ‘‘ what, one must not stand upon a good word for 
a friend!” 

“‘ Here is to thee, Mike, with all my heart,” said the mercer; 
** and thou canst tell one the reality of the new fashions too— 
Here was a rogue pedler but now, was crying up the old- 
fashioned Spanish nether-stock over the Gascoigné hose, 
although thou seest how well the French hose set off the leg 
and knee, being adorned with parti-colored garters and garni 
ture in conformity.” 

“ Excellent, excellent,” replied Lambourne ; “ why, thy 
limber bit of a thigh, thrust through that bunch of slashed 
buckram and tiffany, shows like a housewife’s distaff, when the 
flax is half spun off ! ” 

“« Said I notso ? ” said the mercer, whose shallow brain was 
now overflowed in his turn ; ‘* where then, where be this rascal ° 
pedler ?—there was a pedler here but now, methinks—Mine 
host, where the foul fiend is this pedler ? ” 

‘“‘ Where wise men should be, Master Goldthred,” replied 
Giles Gosling ; “even shut up in his private chamber, telling 


4 KENILWORTH. 213 


over the sales of to-day, and preparing for the custom of to- 
morrow.” 

“¢ Hang him, a mechanical chuff!” said the mercer ; “ but 
for shame, it were a good deed to ease him of his wares,—a set 
of peddling knaves, who stroll through the land, and hurt the 
established trader. ‘There are good fellows in Berkshire 
yet, mine host—your pedler may be met withal on Maiden 
Castle.” 

“« Ay,” replied mine host, laughing, “ and he who meets him 
may meet his match—the pedler is a tall man.” 

“Ts he?” said Goldthred. 

‘Is he ?” replied the host ; * ay, by cock and pie is he—the 
very pedler, he who raddled Robin Hood so tightly, as the song 
says,— 

‘Now Robin Hood drew his sword so good, 
The pedler drew his brand, 


And he hath raddled him Robin Hood, 
Till he neither could see nor stand.’ ” 


“ Hang him, foul scroyle, Jet him pass,” said the mercer ; 
‘if he be such a one, there were small worship to be won upon 
him.—And now tell me, Mike—my honest Mike, how wears the 
Hollands you won of me?” 

“« Why, well, as you may see, Master Goldthred,” answered 
Mike : “ I will bestow a pot on thee for the handsel. Fill the 
flagon, Master ‘l'apster.” 

“Thou wilt win no more Hollands, I think, on such wager, 
friend Mike,” said the mercer ; “ for the sulky swain, Tony 
Foster, rails at thee all to nought, and swears you shall ne’er 
darken his doors again, for that your oaths are enough to blow 
the roof off a Christian man’s dwelling.” 

‘Doth he say so, the mincing hypocritical miser? ” 
vociferated Lambourne ;—‘“ Why, then, he shall come down 
and receive my commands here, this blessed night, under my 
uncle’s roof! And I will ring him such a black sanctus, that 
he shall think the devil hath him by the skirts for a month to 
come, for barely hearing me.” 

“ Nay, now the pottle-pot is uppermost, with a witness ! ” 
said the mercer. “Tony Foster obey thy whistle !—Alas ! 
good Mike, go sleep—go sleep.” 

“ T tell thee what, thou thin-faced gull,” said Michael Lam- 
bourne, in high chafe, “ I will wager thee fifty angels against 
the first five shelves of thy shop, numbering upward from the 
false light, with all that is on them, that I make Tony Foster 
come down to this public house before we have finished three 
rounds,” | 


214 KENILWORTH. 


‘“‘ T will lay no bet to that amount,” said the mercer, somée 
thing sobered by an offer which intimated rather too private a 
knowledge, on Lambourne’s part, of the secret recesses of his 
shop, ‘ I will lay no such wager,” he said ; ‘‘ but I will stake 
five angels against thy five, if thou wilt, that Tony Foster will 
not leave his own roof, or come to ale-house after prayer time, 
for thee, or any man.” 

““ Content,” said Lambourne.— “‘ Here, uncle, hold stakes, 
and let one of your young bleed-barrels here—one of your 
infant tapsters, trip presently up to The Place, and give this 
letter to Master Foster, and say that I, his ingle, Michael 
Lambourne, pray to speak with him at mine uncle’s castle here, 
upon business of grave import.—Away with thee, child, for itis 
now sun-down, and the wretch goeth to bed with the birds to 
save mutton-suet—faugh ! ” 

Shortly after this messenger was despatched—an interval 
which was spent in drinking and buffoonery—he returned with 
the answer, that Master Foster was coming presently. 

““Won, won !”’ said Lambourne, darting on the stake. 

‘“‘ Not till he comes, if you please,” said the mercer, inter 
fering. 

“‘ Why, ’sblood, he is at the threshold,” replied Michael,— 
“What said he, boy?” 

“‘ Tf it please your worship,” answered the messenger, “he 
looked out of window, with a musquetoon in his hand, and 
when I delivered your errand, which I did with fear and 
trembling, he said, with a vinegar aspect, that your worship 
might be gone to the infernal regions.” 

“ Or to hell, I suppose,” said Lambourne—“ it is there he . 
disposes all of that are not of the congregation.” 

“‘ Even so,”’ said the boy ; “* I used the other phrase as being 
the more poetical.” 

‘“¢ An ingenious youth!” said Michael ; ‘‘ shalt have a drop to 
whet thy poetical whistle—And what said Foster next?” 

‘“‘ He called me back,” answered the boy, “ and bid me say, 
you might come to him, if you had aught to say to him.” 

*¢ And what next ?” said Lambourne. 

“ He read the letter, and seemed in a fluster, and asked if 
your worship was in drink—and I said you were speaking a 
little Spanish, as one who had been in the Canaries.” 

‘“Out, you diminutive pint-pot, whelped of an overgrown 
reckoning !” replied Lambourne—“ Out !—But what said he 
then?” 

** Why,” said the boy, “he muttered, that if he came not 
your worship would bolt out what were better kept in ; and so 


? 


KENILWORTH. 215 


he took his old flat cap, and threadbare blue clock, and, as I 
said before, he will be here incontinent.” 

“'There is truth in what he said,” replied Lambourne, as if 
speaking to himself—‘ My brain has played me its old dog’s 
trick—but couragio—let him approach !—I have not rolled 
about in the world for many a day, to fear Tony Foster, be I 
drunk or sober.—Bring me a flagon of cold water, to christen 
my sack withal.” 

While Lambourne, whom the approach of Foster seemed to 
have recalled to a sense of his own condition, was busied in 
preparing to receive him, Giles Gosling stole up to the apart- 
ment of the pedler, whom he found traversing the room in much 
agitation. 

“ You withdrew yourself suddenly from the company,” said 
the landlord to the guest. 

“It was time, when the devil became one among you,” 
replied the pedler. 

“Tt is not courteous in you to term my nephew by such a 
name,” said Gosling, “nor is it kindly in me to reply to it; 
and yet in some sort, Mike may be considered as a limb of 
Satin.” 

““Pooh—I talk not of the swaggering ruffian,” replied the 
pedler, “it is of the other, who, for aught I know—But when 
go they? or wherefore come they?” 

“‘ Marry, these are questions I cannot answer,” replied the 
host. ‘“ But look you, sir, you have brought me a token from 
worthy Master Tressilian—a pretty stone it is.’ He took out 
the ring, and looked at it, adding as he put it into his purse 
again, that it was too.rich a guerdon for anything he could do 
for the worthy donor. He was, he said, in the public line, and 
it ill became him to be too inquisitive into other folk’s concerns; 
he had already said, that he could hear nothing, but that the 
lady lived still at Cumnor Place, in the closest seclusion, and, 
to such as by chance had a view of her, seemed pensive and 
discontented with her solitude. ‘ But here,” he said, “if you 
are desirous to gratify your master, is the rarest chance that 
hath occurred for this many a day. ‘Tony Foster is coming 
down hither, and it is but letting Mike Lambourne smell 
another wine-flask, and the Queen’s command would not move 
him from the ale-bench. So they are fast for an hour or so— 
Now, if you will don your pack, which will be your best excuse, 
you may, perchance, win the ear of the old servant, being assured 
of the master’s absence, to let you try to get some custom of the 
lady, and then you may learn more of her condition than I or 
any other can tell you.” } 


*, : 


216 KENILWORTH. 


“ True—very true,” answered Wayland, for he it was ; “an 
excellent device, but methinks something dangerous—for, say 
Foster should return? ”’ 

““ Very possible indeed,” replied the host. 

“‘ Or say,” continued Wayland, “ the lady should render me 
cold thanks for my exertions ?” 

“ As is not unlikely,” replied Giles Gosling. ‘“ I marve! 
Master Tressilian will take such heed of her that cares not for 
him.” 

“In either case I were foully sped,” said: Wayland ; “ and 
therefore I do not, on the whole, much relish your device.” 

“Nay, but take me with you, good master serving-man,” 
replied mine host ; ‘‘ this is your master’s business and not mine; 
you best know the risk to’ be encountered, or how far you are 
willing to brave it. But that which you will not yourself 
hazard, you cannot expect others to risk.” 

“Hold, hold,” said Wayland; “tell me but one thing— 
Goes yonder old man up to Cumnor?” 

“Surely, I think so,” said the landlord; “their servant said 
he was to take their baggage thither, but the ale-tap has been 
as potent for him as the sack-spigot has been for Michael.” 

“Tt is enough,” said Wayland, assuming an air of resolu- 
tion—“ I will thwart that old villain’s projects—my affright at 
his baleful aspect begins to abate, and my hatred to arise. 
Help me on with my pack, good mine host—And look to thy- 
self, old Albumazar—there is a malignant influence in thy 
horoscope, and it gleams from the constellation Ursa Major.” 

So saying, he assumed his burden, and, guided by the land- 
lord through the postern gate of the Black Bear, took the most 
private way from thence up to Cumnor Place. 


CHAPTER TWENTIETH. 


Clown.—You have of these pedlers, that have more in ’em than you’d 
think, sister. 
WINTER’S TALE, Act IV. Scene 3. 


In his anxiety to obey the Earl’s repeated charges of 
secrecy, as well as from his own unsocial and miserly habits, 
Anthony Foster was more desirous, by his mode of housekeep- 
ing, to escape observation than to resist intrusive curiosity. 
Thus instead of a numerous household, to secure his charge, 


KENILWORTH. 217 


and defend his house, he studied, as much as possible, to elude 
notice by diminishing his attendants; so that, unless when 
there were followers of the Earl or of Varney in the mansion, 
one old male domestic and two aged crones, who assisted in 
keeping the Countess’s apartments in order, were the only 
servants of the family. 

It was one of these old women who opened the door. when 
Wayland knocked, and answered his petition, to be admitted 
to exhibit his wares to the ladies of the family, with a volley 
of vituperation, couched in what is there called the jowrig 
dialect. The pedler found the means of checking her vocifer- 
ation, by slipping a silver groat into her hand, and intimating 
the present of some stuff for a coif, if the lady would buy of his 
wares. 

“God ield thee, for mine is aw in littocks—Slocket with thy 
pack into gharn, mon—Her walks in gharn.”’ Into the garden 
she ushered the pedler accordingly, and pointing to an old 
ruinous garden-house, said, “‘ Yonder be’s her, mon—yonder 
be’s her—Zhe will buy changes an zhe loikes stuffs,” 

“‘ She has left me to come off as I may,” thought Wayland, 
as he heard the hag shut the garden door behind him. | “ But 
they shall not beat me, and they dare not murder me, for so 
little trespass, and by this fair twilight. Hang it, I will on— 
a brave general never thought of his retreat till he was defeated. 
I see two females in the old garden-house yonder—but how to 
address them ?—Stay—wWill Shakspeare, be my friend in need. 
I will give them a taste of Autolycus.” He then sang, with a 
good voice, and becoming audacity, the popular playhouse 
ditty— 

“Lawn as white as driven snow, 
Cyprus black as ere was crow, 


Gloves as sweet as damask roses, 
Masks for faces and for noses.” 


“What hath fortune sent us here for an unwonted sight, 
Janet?” said the lady. 

“One of those merchants of vanity, called pedlers,” answered 
Janet demurely, ‘ who utters his light wares in lighter measures 
—I marvel old Dorcas let him pass.” 

“It is a lucky chance, girl,” said the Countess; ‘ we lead 
a heavy life here, and this may while off a weary hour.” 

“Ay, my gracious lady,” said Janet; ‘‘ but my father?” 

“He is not my father, Janet, nor, I hope, my master,” 
answered the lady—‘ I say, call the man hither—I1 want some 
things.” 

“Nay,” replied Janet, “your ladyship has just to say so in 


218 KENILWORTH. 


the next packet, and if England can furnish them they will be 
sent.—There will come mischief on’t—Pray, dearest lady, let 
me bid the man begone !” 

‘“‘ T will have thee bid him come hither,” said the Countess ; 
—‘or stay, thou terrified fool, I will bid him myself, and spare 
thee a chiding.” 

‘Ah ! well-a-day, dearest lady, if that were the worst,” said 
Janet sadly, while.the lady called to the pedler, ‘‘ Good fellow, 
step forward—undo thy pack—if thou hast good wares, chance 
has sent thee hither for my convenience and thy profit.” 

‘‘What may your ladyship please to lack?” said Wayland, 
unstrapping his pack, and displaying its contents with as much 
dexterity as if he had been bred to the trade. Indeed he had 
occasionally pursued it in the course of his roving life, and now 
commended his wares with all the volubility of a trader, and 
showed some skill in the main art of placing prices upon them. 

‘““What do I please to lack ?” said the lady, “ why, consider- 
ing I have not for six long months bought one yard of lawn or 
cambric, or one trinket, the most inconsiderable, for my own 
use, and at my own choice, the better question is, what hast 
thou got to sell? Lay aside for me that cambric partlet and 
pair of sleeves—and those roundells of gold fringe, drawn out 
with cyprus—and that short cloak of cherry-colored fine cloth 
garnished with gold buttons and loops—is it not of an absolute 
fancy, Janet?” 

“ Nay, my lady,” replied Janet, “if you consult my poor 
judgment, it is, methinks, over gaudy for a graceful habit.” 

“Now, out upon my judgment, if it be no brighter, wench,” 
said the Countess ; “ thou shalt wear it thyself for penance 
sake ; and I promise thee the gold buttons, being somewhat 
massive, will comfort thy father, and reconcile him to the 
cherry-colored body. See that he snap them not away, Janet, 
and send them to bear company with the imprisoned angels 
which he keeps captive in his strong-box.” 

“ May I pray your ladyship to spare my poor father!” said 

anet. 

; ‘Nay, but why should any one spare him that is so sparing 
of his own nature?” replied the lady.—‘‘ Well, but to our gear. 
—That head garniture for myself, and that silver bodkin, 
mounted with pearl ;—and take off two gowns of that russet 
cloth for Dorcas and Alison, Janet, to keep the old wretches 
warm against winter comes—dAnd stay, hast thou no perfumes 
and sweet bags, or any Bae casting bottles, of the newest 
mode ?”’ 

“Were Ia pedler in earnest, I were a made meréhange ef 


KENILWORTH. 219 


thought Wayland, as he busied himself to answer the demands 
which she thronged one on another, with the eagerness of a 
young lady who has been long secluded from such a pleasing 
occupation. “But how to bring her to a moment’s serious 
reflection?”’ Then, as he exhibited his choicest collection of 
essences and perfumes, he at once arrested her attention by 
observing that these articles had almost risen to double value 
since the magnificent preparations made by the Earl of Leices. 
ter to entertain the Queen and court at his princely Castle 
of Kenilworth. 

“Ha!” said the Countess, hastily ; ‘that rumor then is 
true, Janet.” 

*« Surely, madam,” answered Wayland ; “ and I marvel it 
hath not reached your noble ladyship’s ears. The Queen of 
England feasts with the noble Earl for a week during the 
Summer’s Progress ; and there are many who will tell you 
England will have a king, and England’s Elizabeth—God save 
her !—a husband, ere the Progress be over.” 

‘They lie like villains !”’ said the Countess, bursting forth 
impatiently. 

“For God’s sake, madam, consider,” said Janet, trembling 
with apprehension; ** who would cumber themselves about 
pedier’s tidings ?” 

* Yes, Janet !” exclaimed the Countess ; “ right, thou hast 
corrected me justly. Such reports, blighting the reputation 
of England’s brightest and noblest peer, can only find currency 
amongst the mean, the abject, and the infamous !”’ 

‘* May I perish, lady,” said Wayland Smith, observing that 
her violence directed itself toward him, “if [ have done any- 
thing to merit this strange passion !—I have said but what 
many men say.” 

By this time the Countess had recovered her composure, and 
endeavored, alarmed by the anxious hints of Janet, to sup: 
press all appearance of displeasure. ‘“ I were loath,” she said, 
“good fellow, that our Queen should change the virgin style, 
so dear to us her people—think not of it.” And then, as if 
desirous to change the subject, she added, “ And what is this 
paste, so carefully put up in the silver box ?”’ as she examined 
the contents of a casket in which drugs and perfumes were 
contained in separate drawers. 

“Tt is a remedy, madam, for a disorder of which I trust 
your ladyship will never have reason to complain. The 
amount of a small turkey-bean, swailowed daily for a week, 
fortifies the heart against those black vapors, which arise 


220 KENILWORTH. 


from solitude, melancholy, unrequited affection, disappointed 
hope” 

‘Are you a fool, friend?” said the Countess, sharply; ‘or 
do you think, because I have good-naturedly purchased your 
trumpery goods at your roguish prices, that you may put any 
guliery you will on me ?—who ever heard that affections of the 
heart were cured by medicines given to the body?” 

“Under your honorable favor,” said Wayland, “I am an 
honest man, and I have sold my goods at an honest price—As 
to this most precious medicine, when I told its qualities, I 
asked you not to purchase it, so why should I he to you? I 
say not it will cure a rooted affection of the mind, which only 
God and time can do; but I say, that this restorative relieves 
the black vapors which are engendered in the body of that 
melancholy which broodeth on the mind. I have relieved 
many with it, both in court and city, and of late one Master 
Edmund Tressilian, a worshipful gentleman in Cornwall, who, 
on some slight received, it was told me, where he had set his 
affections, was brought into that state of melancholy, which 
made his friends alarmed for his life.” 

He paused, and the lady remained silent for some time, and 
then asked, with a voice which she strove in vain to render 
firm and indifferent in its tone, “Is the gentleman you have 
mentioned perfectly recovered ?” 

‘“‘ Passably, madam,” answered Wayland ; “he hath at least 
no bodily complaint.” 

“‘T will take some of the medicine, Janet,” said the Count- 
ess. ‘I too have sometimes that dark melancholy which over- 
clouds the brain.” 

“You shall not do so, madam,” said Janet; “‘ who shall 
answer that this fellow vends what is wholesome ?” 

“¢ Twill myself warrant my good faith,” said Wayland; and, 
taking a part of the medicine, he swallowed it before them, 
The Countess now bought what remained, a step to which 
Janet, by further objections, only determined her the more 
obstinately. She even took the first dose upon the instant, and 
professed to feel her heart lightened and her spirits augmented, 
a consequence which, in all probability, existed only in her 
own imagination. ‘The lady then piled the purchases she had 
made together, flung her purse to Janct, and desired her to 
compute the amount, and to pay the pedler; while she herself, 
as if tired of the amusement she at first found in conversing 
with him, wished him good evening, and walked carelessly into 
the house, thus depriving Wayland of every opportunity to 


KENILWORTH. mes 


speak with her in private. He hastened however, to attempt 
an explanation with Janet. 

** Maiden,” he said, ‘‘ thou hast the face of one who should 
love her mistress. She hath much need of faithful service.” 

** And well deserves it at my hands,” replied Janet; ‘“ but 
what of that?” 

“* Maiden, I am not altogethe rwhat I seem,” said the pedler, 
lowering his voice. | 

“The less like to be an honest man,” said Janet. 

“The more so,” answered Wayland, “since I am no ped: 


” 


ler. 

“‘ Get thee gone then instantly, or I will call for assistance,” 
said Janet; “my father must ere this time be returned.” 

**Do not be so rash,” said Wayland ; ‘‘ You will do what 
you may repent of. Iam one of your mistress’s friends; and 
she had need of more, not that thou shouldst ruin those she 
hath.” . 

“ How shall I know that?” said Janet. 

“‘Look me in the face,” said Wayland Smith, “and see if 
thou dost not read honesty in my looks.” 

And in truth, though by no means handsome, there was in 
his physiognomy the sharp, keen expression of inventive genius 
and prompt intellect, which, joined to quick and brilliant eyes, 
a well-formed mouth, and an intelligent smile, often gives grace 
and interest to features which are both homely and irregular. 
Janet looked at him with the sly simplicity of her sect, and 
replied, ‘‘ Notwithstanding thy boasted honesty, friend, and 
although I am not accustomed to read and pass judgment on 
such volumes as thou hast submitted to my perusal, I think I 
see in thy countenance something of the pedlor—something of 
the picaroon.” | 

“On a small scale, perhaps,” said Wayland Smith, laughing. 
“ But this evening, or to-morrow, will an old man come hither 
with thy father, who has the stealthy step of the cat, the shrewd 
and vindictive eye of the rat, the fawning wile of the spaniel, 
the determined snatch of the mastifi—of him beware, for your 
own sake and that of your mistress. See you, fair Janet, he 
brings the venom of the aspic under the assumed innocence of 
the dove. What precise mischief he meditates toward you I 
cannot guess, but death and disease have ever dogged his foots 
steps.—Say nought of this to thy mistress—my art suggests to 
me that in her state the fear of evil may be as dangerous 
as its operation—But see that she take my specific, for ’’-- 
(he lowered his voice, and spoke low but impressively in her 


222 KENILWORTH. 


ear)—“ it is an antidote against poison—Hark, they enter the 
garden !” 

In effect, a sound of noisy mirth and loud talking approached 
the garden door, alarmed by which Wayland Smith sprung into 
the midst of a thicket of overgrown shrubs, while Janet with- 
drew to the garden house that she might not incur observa- 
tion, and that she might at the same time conceal, at least for 
the present, the purchases made from the supposed pedler. 
which lay scattered on the floor of the summer-house. 

Janet, however, had no occasion for anxiety. Her father, 
his old attendant, Lord Leicester’s domestic, and the astrologer, 
entered the garden in tumult and in extreme perplexity, en- 
deavoring to quiet Lambourne, whose brain had now become 
completely fired with liquor, and who was one of those un- 
fortunate persons, who, being once stirred with the vinous 
stimulus, do not fall asleep like other drunkards, but remain 
partially influenced by it for many hours, until at length, by 
successive draughts, they are elevated into a state of uncon- 
trolable frenzy. Like many men in this state also, Lambourne 
neither lost the power of motion, speech, or expression; but, 
on the contrary, spoke with unwonted emphasis and readiness, 
and told all that at another time he would have been most 
desirious to keep secret. 

“What!” ejaculated Michael, at the full extent of his voice, 
‘‘am I to have no welcome—no carouse, when I have brought 
fortune to your old ruinous dog-house in the shape of a devil’s 
ally, that can change slate-shivers into Spanish dollars >—Here 
you, Tony Fire-the-Fagot, papist, puritan, hypocrite, miser, pro- 
fligate, devil, compounded of all men’s sins, bow down and 
reverence him who has brought into thy house the very mammon 
thou worshippest.” 

** For God’s sake,” said Foster, ‘‘speak low—come into the 
house—thou shalt have wine, or whatever thou wilt.” 

“No, old puckfoist, I will have it here,” thundered the in: 
ebriated ruffan—here, a@/ fresco as the Italian hath it.—No, no, 
I will not drink with that poisoning devil within doors, to be 
choked with the fumes of arsenic and quicksilver; I learned 
from villain Varney to beware of that.” 

‘“‘ Fetch him wine, in the name of all the fiends!” said the 
alchemist. 

“Aha! and thou wouldst spice it for me, old Truepenny, 
wouldst thou not? Ay, I should have copperas, and hellebore, 
and vitriol, and aquafortis, and twenty devilish materials, 
bubbling in my brainpan, like a charm to raise the devil ina 
witch’s caldron, Hand me the flask thyself, old Tony Fire 


KENILWORTH. 223 


the-Fagot—and let it be cool—I will have no wine mulled at 
the pile of the old burnt bishops—Or stay, let Leicester be 
king if he will—good—and Varney, villain Varney, grand 
vizier—why, excellent!—and what shall I be, then !—why, 
emperor—Emperor Lambourne !—TI will see this choice piece 
of beauty that they have walled up here for their private pleas- 
ures—lI will have her this very night to serve my wine-cup, 
and put on my night-cap. What should a fellow do with two 
wives, were he twenty times an Earl ?—answer me that, Tony 
boy, you old reprobate, hypocritical dog, whom God struck out 
of the book of life, but tormented with the constant wish to be 
restored to it—You old bishop-burning, blasphemous fanatic, 
answer me that!” 

“*T will stick my knife to the haft in him,” said Foster, in a 
low tone, which trembled with passion. 

“For the love of Heaven, no violence!” said the astrologer. 
“Tt cannot but be looked closely into.—Here, honest Lam- 
bourne, wilt thou pledge me to the health of the noble Earl of 
Leicester and Master Richard Varney?” 

“T will, mine old Albumazar—lI will, my trusty vendor of 
ratsbane—I would kiss thee, mine honest infractor of the Lex 
Julia (as they said at Leyden), didst thou not flavor so dam- 
nably of sulphur, and such fiendish apothecary’s stuff.—Here 
goes it, up seyes—to Varney and Leicester !—two more noble 
mounting spirits, and more dark-seeking, deep-diving, high- 
flying, malicious, ambitious miscreants—well, I say no more, 
but I will whet my dagger in his heart-spone, that refuses to 
pledge me! And so, my masters ” 

Thus speaking, Lambourne exhausted the cup which the 
astrologer had handed to him, and which contained not wine, 
but distilled spirits. He swore half an oath, dropped the 
empty cup from his grasp, laid his hand on his sword without 
being able to draw it, reeled, and fell without sense or motion 
into the arms of the domestic, who dragged him off to his 
chamber and put him to bed. 

In the general confusion, Janet regained her lady’s chamber 
unobserved, trembling like an aspen leaf, but determined. to 
keep secret from the Countess the dreadful surmises which she 
could not help entertaining from the drunken ravings of Lam: 
bourne. Her fears, however, though they assumed: no certain 
shape, kept pace with the advice of the pedler ; and she con- 
firmed her mistress in her purpose of taking the medicine 
which he had recommended, from which it is probable she 
would otherwise have dissuaded her. Neither had these inti- 
mations escaped the ears of Wayland, who knew much better 


224 KENILWORTH. 


how to interpret them. He felt much compassion at beholding 
so lovely a creature as the Countess, and whom he had first 
seen in the bosom of domestic happiness, exposed to the machi- 
nations of such a gang of villains, His indignation, too, had 
been highly excited, by hearing the voice of his old master, 
against whom he felt, in equal degree, the passions of hatred 
and fear. He nourished also a pride in his own art and re- 
sources ; and, dangerous as the task was, he that night formed 
a determination to attain the bottom of the mystery, and to 
aid the distressed lady, if it were yet possible. From some 
words which Lambourne had dropped among his ravings, Way- 
land now, for the first time, felt inclined to doubt that Varney 
had acted entirely on his own account, in wooing and winning 
the affections of this beautiful creature. Fame asserted of this 
zealous retainer, that he had accommodated his lord in former 
love intrigues, and it occurred to Wayland Smith, that 
Leicester himself might be the party chiefly interested. Her 
marriage with the Earl he could not suspect; but even the 
discovery of such a passing intrigue with a lady of Mistress 
Amy Robsart’s rank, was a secret of the deepest importance 
to. the stability of the favorite’s power over Elizabeth. “If 
Leicester himself should hesitate to stifle such a rumor by 
very strange means,” said he to himself, ‘‘he has those about 
him who would do him that favor without waiting for his con- 
sent. If I would meddle in this business, it must be in such 
guise as my old master uses when he compounds his manna 
of Satan, and that is with a close mask on my face. So I will 
quit Giles Gosling to-morrow, and change my course and 
place of residence as often as a hunted fox. J should like to 
see this little puritan, too, once more. She looks both pretty 
and intelligent, to have come of such a caitiff as Anthony Fire- 
the-Fagot.” 

Giles Gosling received the adieus of Wayland rather joy- 
fully than otherwise. The honest publican saw so much peril 
in crossing the course of the Earl of Leicester’s favorite, that 
his virtue was scarce able to support him in the task, and he 
was well pleased when it was likely to be removed from his 
shoulders ; still, however, professing his goodwill, and readi- 
ness, in case of need, to do Mr. Tressilian or his emissary 
any service, in so far as consisted with his character of a pub. 
lican. 3 


KENILWORTH 225 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. 


Vaulting ambition, that o’erleaps itself, 
And falls on t’other side. 
MACBETH. 


THE splendor of the approaching revels at Kenilworth was 
now the conversation through all England; and everything 
was collected at home, or from abroad, which could add to the 
gayety or glory of the prepared reception of Elizabeth, at the 
house of her most distinguished favorite. Meantime, Leicester 
appeared daily to advance in the Queen’s favor. He was per- 
petually by her side in council, willingly listened to in the 
moments of courtly recreation—favored with approaches even 
to familiar intimacy—looked up to by all who had aught to 
hope at court—courted by foreign ministers with the most 
flattering testimonies of respect from their sovereigns—the 
Alter Ego, as it seemed, of the stately Elizabeth, who was 
now very generally supposed to be studying the time and 
opportunity for associating him, by marriage, into her sovereign 
power. 

Amid such a tide of prosperity, this minion of fortune, and 
of the Queen’s favor, was probably the most unhappy man in 
the realm which seemed at his devotion. He had the Fairy 
King’s superiority over his friends and dependants, and saw 
much which they could not. The character of his mistress 
was intimately known to him; it was his minute and studied 
acquaintance with her humors, as well as her noble faculties, 
which, joined to his powerful mental qualities, and his eminent 
external accomplishments, had raised him so high in her favor ; 
and it was that very knowledge of her disposition which led 
him to apprehend at every turn some sudden and overwhelming 
disgrace. Leicester was like a pilot possessed of a chart, 
which points out to him all the peculiarities of his navigation, 
but which exhibits so many shoals, breakers, and reefs of rocks, 
that his anxious eye reaps little more from observing them, 
than to be convinced that his final escape can be little else 
than miraculous. 

In fact, Queen Elizabeth had a character strangely com- 
pounded of the strongest masculine sense, with those foibles 
which are chiefly supposed proper to the female sex. Her 
subjects had the full benefit of her virtues, which far predomi- 


226 KENILWORTH. 


nated over her weaknesses ; but her courtiers, and those about 
her person, had often to sustain sudden and embarrassing turns 
of caprice, and the sallies of a temper which was both jealous 
and despotic. She was the nursing-mother of her people, but 
she was also the true daughter of Henry VIII.; and though 
early sufferings and an excellent education had repressed and 
modified, they had not altogether destroyed the hereditary 
temper of that ‘“hard-ruled King.”—‘“ Her mind,” says her 
witty god-son, Sir John Harrington, who had experienced both 
the smiles and the frowns which he describes, “ was ofttime like 
the gentle air that cometh from the western point in a summer’s 
morn—’twas sweet and refreshing to all around her. Her 
speech did win all affections. And again, she could put forth 
such alterations, when obedience was lacking, as left no doubt- 
ing whose daughter she was. When she smiled, it was a pure 
sunshine, that every one did choose to bask in, if they could ; 
but anon came a storm, from a sudden gathering of clouds, and 
the thunder fell, in a wondrous manner, on all alike.” * 

This variability of disposition, as Leicester well knew, was 
chiefly formidable to those who had a share in the Queen’s 
affections, and who depended rather on her personal regard, 
than on the indispensable services which they could render to 
her councils and her crown. The favor of Burleigh, or of 
Walsingham, of a description far less striking than that by 
which he was himself upheld, was founded, as Leicester was 
well aware, on Elizabeth’s solid judgment, not on her partiality ; 
and was, therefore, free from all those principles of change and 
decay, necessarily incident to that which chiefly arose from 
personal accomplishments and female predilection. These 
great and sage statesmen were judged of by the Queen, only 
with reference to the measures they suggested, and the reasons 
by which they supported their opinions in council; whereas 
the success of Leicester’s course depended on all those light 
and changeable gales of caprice and humor, which thwart or 
favor the progress of a lover in the favor of his mistress, and 
she, too, a mistress who was ever and anon becoming fearful 
lest she should forget the dignity, or compromise the authority, 
of the Queen, while she indulged the affections of the woman. 
Of the difficulties which surrounded his power, ‘too great to 
keep or to resign,” Leicester was fully sensible; and as he 
looked anxiously round for the means of maintaining himself 
in his precarious situation, and sometimes contemplated those 
of descending from it in safety, he saw but little hope of either 


* Nuge Antique, vol. i. pp. 355-362. 


KENILWORTH. 227 


At such moments, his thoughts turned to dwell upon his secret 
marriage, and its consequences ; and it was in bitterness against 
himself, if not against his unfortunate Countess, that he ascribed 
to that hasty measure, adopted in the ardor of what he now 
called inconsiderate passion, at once the impossibility of placing 
his power on a solid basis, and the immediate prospect of its 
precipitate downfall. 

“Men say,” thus ran his thoughts, in these anxious and 
repentant moments, “that I might marry Elizabeth, and 
become King of England. All things suggest this. The match 
is caroled in ballads, while the rabble throw their caps 
up—lIt has been touched upon in the schools—whispered in the 
presence-chamber—recommended from the pulpit—prayed for 
in the Calvinistic churches abroad—touched on by statists in 
the very council at home—These bold insinuations have been 
rebutted by no rebuke, no resentment, no chiding, scarce even 
by the usual female protestation that she would live and die a 
virgin princess.—Her words have been more courteous than 
ever, though she knows such rumors are abroad—her actions 
more gracious—her looks more kind—nought seems wanting 
to make me King of England, and place me beyond the storms 
of court-favor, excepting the putting forth of mine own hand 
to take that crown imperial, which is the glory of the universe ! 
And when I might stretch that hand out most boldly, it is fet- 
tered down by a secret and inextricable bond !~And here J 
have letters from Amy,” he would say, catching them up with a 
movement of peevishness, “ persecuting me to acknowledge her 
openly—to do justice to her and to myself—and I wot not what. 
Methinks I have done less than justice to myself—already. 
And she speaks as if Elizabeth were to receive the knowledge 
of this matter with the glee of a mother hearing of the happy 
twarriage of a hopeful son !—She, the daughter of Henry, who 
spared neither man in his anger, nor woman in his desire—she 
to find herself tricked, drawn on with toys of passion to the 
verge of acknowledging her love to a subject, and he discovered 
to be a married man !—FElizabeth to learn that she had been 
dallied with in such fashion, as a gay courtier might trifle with 
a country wench—We should then see to our ruin /urens guid 
femina l” 

He would then pause, and call for Varney, whose advice 
was now more frequently resorted to than ever, because the 
Earl remembered the remonstrances which he had made against 
his secret contract. And their consultation usually terminated 
in anxious deliberation, how or in what manner the Countess 
was io be produced at Kenilworth. These communings had for 


228 KENILWORTH. 


some time ended always in a resolution to delay the Progress 
from day to day. But at length a peremptory decision became 
necessary. 

-“ Elizabeth will not be satisfied without her presence,” said 
the Earl; ‘“‘ whether any suspicion hath entered her mind, as my 
own apprehensions suggest, or whether the petition of Tressilian 
is kept in her memory by Sussex, or some other secret enemy . 
I know not; but amongst all the favorable expressions which 
she uses to me, she often recurs to the story of Amy Robsart. 
I think that Amy is the slave in the chariot, who is placed there 
by my evil fortune to dash and to confound my triumph, even 
when at the highest. Show me thy device, Varney, for solving 
the inextricable difficulty. I have thrown every such impediment 
in the way of these accursed revels as I could propound even 
with a shade of decency, but to-day’s interview has putall toa 
hazard. She said to me kindly, but peremptorily, ‘We will 
give you no further time for preparations, my lord, lest you 
should altogether ruin yourself. On Saturday, the gth of July, 
we will be with you at Kenilworth—We pray you to forget none 
of our appointed guests and suitors, and in especial this light- 
o’-love, Amy Robsart. We would wish to see the woman who 
could postpone yonder. poetical gentieman, Master Tressilian, 
to your man, Richard Varney.’—Now, Varney, ply thine inven- 
tion, whose forge hath availed us so often; for sure as my name 
is Dudley, the danger menaced by my horoscope is now darken- 
ing around me.” 

“Can my lady be by no means persuaded to bear for a brief 
space the obscure character which circumstances impose on 
her?” said Varney, after some hesitation. 

‘“‘ How, sirrah! my Countess term herself ¢zy wife—that may 
neither stand with my honor nor with hers.” 

“Alas! my lord,” answered Varney, “and yet such is the 
quality in which Elizabeth now holds her ; and to contradict this 
opinion is to discover all,” 

“Think of something else, Varney,” said the Earl, in great 
agitation; “ this invention is nought—if I could give way to it, 
she would not; for I tell thee, Varney, if thou know’st it not, 
that not Elizabeth on the throne has more pride than the 
daughter of this obscure gentleman of Devon. She is flexible 
in many things, but where she holds her honor brought in ques- 
tion, she hatha spirit and temper as apprehensive as lightning, 
and as swift in execution.” 

‘““We have experienced that, my lord, else-had we not been 
thus circumstanced,” said Varney. ‘ But what else to suggest 
I know not—Methinks she whose good fortune in becoming 


KENILWORTH. 229 


your lordship’s bride, and who gives rise to the danger, should 
do somewhat toward parrying it.” 

*¢ Jt is impossible,” said the Earl, waving his hand ; “JI know 
neither authority nor entreaties would make her endure thy 
name for an hour.” 

“It is somewhat hard, though,” said Varney, in a dry tone; 
and without pausing on that topic, he added, ‘“‘ Suppose some 
one were found to represent her? Such feats have been 
performed in the courts of as sharp-eyed monarchs as Queen 
Elizabeth.” 

“Utter madness, Varney,” answered the Earl; ‘‘the coun- 
terfeit would be confronted with Tressilian, and discovery be- 
come inevitable.” 

“'Tressilian might be removed from court,” said the unhes- 
itating Varney. 

“And by what means ?” 

“There are many,” said Varney, “by which a statesman in 
your situation, my lord, may remove from the scene one who 
pries into your affairs, and places himself in perilous opposition 
to you.” 

‘“‘ Speak not to me of such policy, Varney,” said the Earl, 
hastily ; “‘ which, besides, would avail nothing in the present 
case. Many others there be at court, to whom Amy may be 
known ; and besides, on the absence of Tressilian, her father 
or some of her friends would be instantly summoned hither. 
Urge thine invention once more.” 

“My lord, I know not what to say,” answered Varney ; “ but 
were I myself in such perplexity, I would ride post down to 
Cumnor Place, and compel my wife to give her consent to such 
measures as her safety and mine required.” 

“Varney,” said Leicester, “I cannot urge her to aught so 
repugnant to her noble nature, as a share in this stratagem— 
it would be a base requital to the love she bears me.’ 

“ Well, my lord,” said Varney, “ your lordship is a wise and 
an honorable man, and skilled in those high points of romantic 
scruple, which are current in Arcadia, perhaps, as your nephew, 
Philip Sidney, writes. I am your humble servitor—a man of 
this world, and only happy that my knowledge of it, and its 
ways, 1S such as your lordship has not scorned to avail yourself 
of. Now I would fain know, whether the obligation lies on my 
lady or on you, in this fortunate union ; and which has most 
reason to show complaisance to the other, and to consider that 
other’s wishes, conveniences, and safety ?” 

*‘T tell thee, Varney,” said the Earl, ‘that all it was in my 
power to bestow upon her, was not merely deserved but a 


230 KENILWORTH. 


thousand times overpaid, by her own virtue and beauty ; tor 
never did greatness descend upon a creature so formed by nature 
to grace and adorn it.” 

‘“‘ It is well, my lord, you are so satisfied,” answered Varney, 
with his usual sardonic smile, which even respect to his patron 
could not at all times subdue—‘ you will have time enough to 
enjoy undisturbed the society of one so gracious and beautiful 
——that is, so soon as such confinement in the Tower be over, 
as may correspond to the crime of deceiving the affections of 
Elizabeth Tudor—A cheaper penalty, I presume, you do not 
expect.” 

‘Malicious fiend !”’ answered Leicester, “‘do you mock me in 
my misfortune ?—Manage it as thou wilt.” 

‘“‘ Tf you are serious, my lord,” said Varney, “ you must set 
forth instantly, and post for Cumnor Place.” 

‘Do thou go thyself, Varney ; the devil has given thee that 
sort of eloquence, which is most powerful in the worst cause. 
I should stand self-convicted of villainy were I to urge such a 
deceit—Begone, I tell thee—Must I entreat thee to mine own 
dishonor ?” 

‘“No, my lord,” said Varney—* but if you are serious in 
intrusting me with the task of urging this most necessary 
measure, you must give me a letter to my lady, as my creden- 
tials, and trust to me for backing the advice it contains with 
all the force in my power. And such is my opinion of my lady’s 
love for your lordship, and of her willingness to do that which 
is at once to contribute to your pleasure and your safety, that 
I am sure she will condescend to bear for a few brief days the 
name of so humble a man as myself, especially since it is not 
inferior in antiquity to that of her own paternal house.” 

Leicester seized on writing materials, and twice or thrice 
commenced a letter to the Countess, which he afterward tore 
into fragments. At length he finished a few distracted lines, 
in which he conjured her, for reasons nearly concerning his 
life and honor, to consent to bear the name of Varney for a 
few days, during the revels at Kenilworth. He added, that 
Varney would communicate all the reasons which rendered this 
deception indispensable ; and having signed and sealed these 
credentials, he flung them over the table to Varney, with a 
motion that he should depart, which his adviser was not slow 
to comprehend and to obey. 

Leicester remained like one stupefied, till he heard the 
trampling of the horses, as Varney, who took no time even to 
change his dress, threw himself into the saddle, and, followed 
by asingle servant, set off for Berkshire, At the sound, the 


KENILWORTH. 231 


Earl started from his seat, and ran to the window, with the 
momentary purpose of recalling the unworthy commission with 
which he had intrusted one, of whom he used to say, he knew 
no virtuous property save afiection to his patron. But Varney 
was already beyond call—and the bright starry firmament, 
which the age considered as the Book of Fate, lying spread 
before Leicester when he opened the casement, diverted him 
from his better and more manly purpose. 

“There they roll on their silent but potential course,” said 
the Earl, looking around him, “ without a voice which speaks to 
our ear, but not without influence which affects, at every change, 
the indwellers of this vile earthly planet. This, if astrologers 
fable not, is the very crisis of my fate! The hour approaches 
of which I was taught to beware—the hour, too, which I was 
encouraged to hope for.—A king was the word—but how ?— 
the crown matrimonial—all hopes of that are gone—let them 
go. The rich Netherlands have demanded me for their leader, 
and, would Elizabeth consent, would yield to me ¢#ezr crown.— 
And have I not such a claim, even in this kingdom? ‘That of 
York, descending from George of Clarence to the House of 
Huntingdon, which, this lady failing, may have a fair chance— 
Huntingdon is of my house.—But T will plunge no deeper in 
these high mysteries. Let me hold my course in silence for a 
while, and in obscurity like a subterranean river—the time 
shall come, that I will burst forth in my strength, and bear all 
opposition before me.” 

While Leicester was thus stupefying the remonstrances of 
his own conscience, by appealing to political necessity for his 
apology, or losing himself amidst the wild dreams of ambition, 
his agent left town and tower behind him, on his hasty journey 
to Berkshire. He also nourished high hope. He had brought 
Lord Leicester to the point which he had desired, of committing 
to him the most intimate recesses of his breast, and of using 
him as the channel of his most confidential intercourse with his 
lady. Henceforward it would, he foresaw, be difficult for his 
patron either to dispense with his services, or refuse his re- 
quests, however unreasonable. And if this disdainful dame, as 
he termed the Countess, should comply with the request of her 
husband, Varney, her pretended husband, must needs become 
so situated with respect to her, that there was no knowing 
where his audacity might be bound—perhaps not till circum- 
stances enabled him to obtain a triumph, which he thought of 
with a mixture of fiendish feelings, in which revenge for her 
previous scorn was foremost and predominant. Again he con- 
templated the possibility of her being totally intractable, and 


232 KENILWORTH. 


refusing obstinately to play the part assigned to her in the 
drama at Kenilworth. 

‘¢ Alasco must then do his part,” he said—* Sickness must 
serve her Majesty as an excuse for not receiving the homage of 
Mrs. Varney—ay, and a sore and wasting sickness it may prove, 
should Elizabeth continue to cast so favorable an eye on my 
Lord of Leicester. I wilinot forego the chance of being favorite 
of a monarch for want of. determined measures, should these 
be necessary.—Forward, good horse, forward—ambition, and 
haughty hope of power, pleasure and revenge, strike their 
stings as deep through my bosom as I plunge the rowels in thy 
flanks—On good horse, on—the devil urges us both forward.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND. 


Say that my beauty was but small, 
Among court ladies all despised, 

Why didst thou rend it from that hall, 
Where, scornful Earl, ’twas dearly prized 3 ? 


No more thou com’st with wonted speed, 
Thy once beloved bride to see; 
But be she alive or be she dead, 
I fear, stern Earl’s the same to thee, 
CUMNOR HALL BY WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 


THE ladies of fashion of the present, or of any other period, 
must have allowed, that the young and lovely Countess of 
Leicester had, besides her youth and beauty, two qualities which 
entitled her to a place amongst women of rank and distinction. 
She displayed, as we have seen in her interview with the pedler, 
a liberal promptitude to make unnecessary purchases, solely 
for the pleasure of acquiring useless and showy trifles which 
ceased to please as soon as they were possessed ; and she was, 
besides, apt to spend a considerable space of time every day in 
adorning her person, although the varied splendor of her attire 
could only attract the half satirical praise of the precise Janet, 
or an approving glance from the bright eyes which witnessed 
their own beams of triumph reflected from the mirror. 

The Countess Amy had indeed to plead for indulgence in 
those frivolous tastes, that the education of the times had done 
little or nothing for a mind naturally gay and averse to study. 
If she had not loved to collect finery and to wear it, she might 
have woven tapestry or sewed embroidery, till her labors spread 


KENILWORTH. 233 


in gay profusion all over the walls and seats at Lidcote Hail; 
or she might have varied Minerva’s labors with the task of pre. 
paring a mighty pudding against the time that Sir Hugh Rob- 
sart returned from the greenwood. But Amy had no natura} 
genius either for the loom, the needle or the receipt-book. 
Her mother had died in infancy; her father contradicted her 
in nothing; and Tressilian, the only one that approached her, 
who was able or desirous to attend to the cultivation of her 
mind, had much hurt his interest with her, by assuming too 
eagerly the task of a preceptor; so that he was regarded by 
the lively, indulged, and idle girl, with some fear and much re- 
spect ; but with little or nothing of that softer emotion which it 
had been his hope and his ambition to inspire. And thus her 
heart lay readily open, and her fancy became easily captivated 
by the noble exterior, and graceful deportment, and complacent 
flattery of Leicester, even before he was known to her as the 
dazzling minion of wealth and power. 

The frequent visits of Leicester at Cumnor, during the earlier 
part of their union, had reconciled the Countess to the solitude 
and privacy to which she was condemned; but when these 
visits became rarer and more rare, and when the void was filled 
up with letters of excuse, not always very warmly expressed, 
and generally extremely brief, discontent and suspicion began 
to haunt those splendid apartments which love had fitted up for 
beauty. Her answers to Leicester conveyed these feelings too 
bluntly, and pressed more naturally than prudently that she 
might be relieved from this obscure and secluded residence, by 
the Earl’s acknowledgment of their marriage ; and in arranging 
her arguments, with all the skill she was mistress of, she trusted 
chiefly to the warmth of the entreaties with which she urged 
them. Sometimes she even ventured to mingle reproaches, of 
which Leicester conceived he had good reason to complain. 

“T have made her Countess,” he said to Varney; “ surely 
she might wait till it consisted with my pleasure that she should 
put on the coronet.” 

The Countess Amy viewed the subject in directly an oppo- 
site light. 

“What signifies,’ she said, “that I have rank and honor 
in reality, if 1 am to live an obscure prisoner, without either 
society or observance, and suffering in my character, as one of 
dubious or disgraced reputation? I care not for all those 
strings of pearl, which you fret me by wrapping into my tresses, 
Janet. I tell you, that at Lidcote Hall, if I put but a fresh 
rose-bud among my hair, my good father would call me to him, 
that he might see it more closely ; and the kind old curate would 


234 KENILWORTH. 


smile, and Master Mumblazen would say something about roseg 
gules; and now I sit here, decked cut like an image with gold 
and gems, and no one to see my finery but you, Janet. There 
was poor Tressilian, too—but it avails not speaking of him.” 

“It doth not indeed, madam,”’ said her prudent attendant ; 
* and verily you make me sometimes wish you would not speak 
of him so often, or so rashly.” 

“It signifies nothing to warn me, Janet,” said the impatient 
and incorrigible Countess ; ‘‘ I was born free, though I am now 
mewed up like some fine foreign slave, rather than the wife of 
an English noble. I bore it all with pleasure while I was sure 
he loved me; but now, my tongue and heart shall be free, let 
them fetter these limbs as they will.—I tell thee, Janet, I love 
my husband—lI will love him till my latest breath—I cannot 
cease to love him, even if I would, or if he-—-which, God knows, 
may chance—should cease to love me. But I will say, and 
loudly, I would have been happier than I now am, to have re- 
mained in Lidcote Hall, even although I must have married 
poor Tressilian, with his melancholy look, and his head full of 
learning, which I cared not for. He said, if I would read his 
favorite volumes, there would come a time that I should be 
glad of having done so—I think it is come now.’ 

al brought you some books, madam,” said Janet, “froma 
lame fellow who sold them in the Market-place—and who stared 
something boldly at me, I promise you.” 

‘“‘Let me see them, Janet,” said the Countess ; ‘ but let 
them not be of your own precise cast.—How is this, most 
righteous damsel ?—‘ 4 Pair of Snuffers for the Golden Candve- 
stick. —‘A Handful of Myrre and Hyssop to put a sick soul to 
Purgation.— A Draught of Water from the Valley of Baca’— 
‘Foxes and Firebrands’—What gear call you this, maiden?” 

‘“‘ Nay, madam,” said Janet, “ it was but fitting and seemly 
to put grace into your ladyship’s way ; but an you will none of 
it, there are play-books, and poet-books, I trow.” 

The Countess proceeded carelessly in her examination, turn- 
ing over such rare volumes as would now make the fortune of 
twenty retail booksellers. Here was a “ Boke of Cookery, Lm- 
printed by Richard Lant,”’ and “ Skelton’s Books’ —“ The Pass- 
time of the People— The Castle of Knowledge,” etc. But neither 
to this lore did the Countess’s heart incline, and joyfully did 
she start up from the listless task of turning over the leaves of 
the pamphlets, and hastily did she scatter them through the 
floor, when the hasty clatter of horses’ feet, heard in the court» 
yard, called her to the window, exclaimining, “ Itis Leicester }-- 


i 


KENILWORTH. 236 


it is my noble Earl!—it is my Dudley !—Every stroke of his 
horse’s hoof sounds like a note of lordly music!” 

There was a brief bustle in the mansion, and Foster, with 
his downward look and sullen manner, entered the apartment 
to say, “ That Master Richard Varney was arrived from my 
lord, having ridden all night, and craved to speak with her 
ladyship instantly.” 

“Varney?” said the disappointed Countess; “and to 
speak with me?—pshaw! But he comes with news from 
Leicester—so admit him instantly.” 

Varney entered the dressing apartment, where she sat ar 
_rayed in her native loveliness, adorned with all that Janet’s art, 
and a rich and tasteful undress, could bestow. But the most 
beautiful part of her attire was her profuse and luxuriant light- 
brown locks, which floated in such rich abundance around a 
neck that resembled a swan’s, and over a bosom heaving with 
anxious expectation, which communicated a hurried tinge of © 
red to her whole countenance. 

Varney entered the room in the dress in which he had waited 
on his master that morning to court, the splendor of which 
made a strange contrast with the disorder arising from hasty 
riding during a dark night and foul ways. His brow wore an 
anxious and hurried expression, as one who has that to say of 
which he doubts the reception, and who hath yet posted on 
from the necessity of communicating his tidings. The Count- 
ess’s anxious eye at once caught the alarm, as she exclaimed, 
“‘You bring news from my lord, Master Varney——Gracious 
Heaven! is he ill?” 

“No, madam, thank Heaven!” said Varney. “Compose 
yourself, and permit me to take breath ere 1 communicate my 
tidings.” 

‘“‘ No breath, sir,’”’ replied the Lady, impatiently; “I know 
your theatrical arts. Since your breath hath sufficed to bring 
you hither, it may suffice to tell your tale, at least briefly, and 
in the gross.” 

‘‘ Madame,” answered Varney, “we are not alone, and my 
lord’s message was for your ear only.” 

“Leave us, Janet, and Master Foster,” said the Lady; “but 
remain in the next apartment, and within call.” 

Foster and his daughter retired, agreeably to the Lady 
Leicester’s commands, into the next apartment, which was the 
withdrawing-room. The door which led from the sleeping- 
chamber was then carefully shut and bolted, and the father 
and daughter remained both in a posture of anxious attention, 
the first with a stern, suspicious, anxious cast of countenance, 


236 KENILWORTH. 


and Janet with folded hands, and looks which seemed divided 
betwixt her desire to know the fortunes of her mistress, and 
her prayers to heaven for her safety. Anthony Foster seemed 
himself to have some idea of what was passing through his 
daughter’s mind, for he crossed the apartment and took her 
anxiously by the hand, saying, “ That is right—pray, Janet. 
pray—we have all need of prayers, and some of us more than 
others. Pray, Janet—I would pray myself, but I must listen 
to what goes on within—evil has been brewing, love—evil has 
been brewing. God forgive our sins; but Varney’s sudden 
and strange arrival bodes us no good.” 

Janet had never before heard her father excite or even 
permit her attention to anything which passed in their mysteri- 
ous family, and now that he did so, his voice sounded in her: 
ear—she knew not why—like that of a screech-owl denouncing 
some deed of terror and of woe. She turned her eyes fear- 
' fully toward the door, almost as if she expected some sounds 
of horror to be heard, or some sight of fear to display itself. 

All, however, was as still as death, and the voices of those 
who spoke in the inner chamber were, if they spoke at all, 
carefully subdued to a tone which could not be heard in the 
next. At once, however, they were heard to speak fast, thick, 
and hastily ; and presently after the voice of the Countess was 
heard exclaimimg, at the highest pitch to which indignation 
could raise it, “‘ Undo the door, sir, I command you!—Undo 
the door !—I will have no other reply!” she continued, drown- 
ing with her vehement accents the low and muttered sounds 
which Varney was heard to utter betwixt whiles. ‘ What ho! 
without there!” she persisted, accompanying her words with 
shrieks, ‘‘ Janet, alarm the house !—Foster, break open the door 
—I am detained here by a traitor !—Use axe and lever, Master 
Foster—I will be your warrant!” 

“Tt shall not need, madam,” Varney was at length distinctly 
heard to say. “If you please ‘to expose my lord’s important 
concerns and your own to the general ear, I will not be your 
hindrance.” . 

The door was unlocked and thrown open, and Janet and her 
father rushed in, anxious to learn the cause of these reiterated 
exclamations. 

When they entered the apartment, Varney stood by the door 
grinding his teeth, with an expression in which rage, and shame 
and fear, had each their share. The Countess stood in the 
midst of her apartment like a juvenile Pythoness, under the 
influence of the prophetic fury. The veins in her beautiful fore- 
head started into swoln blue lines through the hurried impulse 


KENILWORTH. 237 


of her articulation—her cheek and neck glowed like scarlet— 
her eyes were like those of an imprisoned eagle, flashing red 
lightning on the foes whom it cannot reach with its talons. 
Were it possible for one of the Graces to have been animated 
by a Fury, the countenance could not have united such beauty 
with so much hatred, scorn, defiance, and resentment. ‘The 
gesture and attitude corresponded with the voice and looks, and 
altogether presented a spectacle which was at once beautiful 
and fearful ; so much of the sublime had the energy of passion 
united with the Countess Amy’s natural loveliness. Janet, as 
soon as the door was open, ran to her mistress; and more 
slowly, yet with more haste than he was wont, Anthony Foster 
went to Richard Varney. 

“In the Truth’s name, what ails your ladyship?” said the 
former. 

“What in the name of Satan, have you done to her?” said 
Foster to his friend. 

“Who, J ?—nothing,” answered Varney, but with sunken 
head and sullen voice; “nothing but communicated to her her 
lord’s commands, which, if the lady list not to obey, she knows 
better how to answer it than I may pretend to do.” 

“Now, by Heaven, Janet,” said the Countess, “ the false 
traitor lies in his throat! He must needs le, for he speaks to 
the dishonor of my noble Jord—he must needs lie doubly, for 
he speaks to gain ends of his own, equally execrable and 
unattainable.” 

“You have misapprehended me, lady,” said Varney, with a 
sulky species of submission and apology; “let this matter rest 
till your passion be abated, and I will explain all.” 

“Thou shalt never have an opportunity to do so,” said the 
Countess.—“ Look at him, Janet. He is fairly dressed, hath 
the outside of a gentleman, and hither he came to persuade me 
it was my lord’s pleasure—nay, more, my wedded lord’s com- 
mands, that I should go with him to Kenilwerth, and before 
_ the Queen and nobles, and in presence of my own wedded lord, 
that [ should acknowledge him—Azm there—that very cldoak- 
brushing, shoe-cleaning fellow—/zm there, my lord’s lackey, for 
my liege lord and husband; furnishing against myself, great 
God ! whenever i was to vindicate my right and my rank, such 
weapons as would hew my just claim from the root, and destroy 
my character to be regarded as an honorable matron of the 
-English nobility! ” 

‘“You hear her, Foster, and you, young maiden, hear this 
lady,” answered Varney, taking advantage of the pause which 
the Countess had made in her charge, more for lack of breath 


238 KENILWORTH. 


han for lack of matter—‘ You hear that her heat only objects 
to me the course which our good lord, for the purpose to keep 
certain matters secret, suggests in the very letter which she 
holds in her hands.” 

Foster here attempted to interfere with a face of authority, 
which he thought became the charge intrusted to him, “ Nay, 
lady, I must needs say you are over hasty in this—Such deceit 
is not utterly to be condemned when practiced for a righteous 
end; and thus even the patriarch Abraham feigned Sarah to 
be his sister when they went down to Egypt.” 

‘« Ay, sir,” answered the Countess ; “‘ but God rebuked that 
deceit even in the father of his chosen people, by the mouth of 
the heathen Pharaoh. Out upon you, that will read Scripture 
only to copy those things, which are held out to us as warnings, 
not as examples!”’ 

“But, Sarah disputed not the will of her husband, an it be 
your pleasure,” said Foster, in reply; “but did as Abraham 
commanded, calling herself his sister, that it might be well 
with her husband for her sake, and that his soul might live 
because of her beauty.” 

‘“‘Now, so heaven pardon me my useless anger,” answered 
the Countess, “ thou art as daring a hypocrite as yonder fellow 
is an impudent deceiver! Never will I believe that the noble 
Dudley gave countenance to so dastardly, so dishonorable a 
plan. Thus I tread on his infamy, if indeed it be, and thus 
destroy its remembrance forever!” 

So saying, she tore in pieces Leicester’s letter, and stamped, 
in the extremity of impatience, as if She would have annihilated 
the minute fragments into which she had rent it. 

‘‘ Bear witness,” said Varney, collecting himself, “she hath 
torn my lord’s letter, in order to burden me with the scheme 
of his devising ; and although it promises nought but danger 
and trouble to me, she would lay it to my charge, as if it had 
any purpose of mine own in it.” 

*« Thou liest, thou treache'ous slave!” said the Countess, 
in spite of Janet’s attempts to keep her silent, in the sad fore- 
sight that her vehemence might only furnish arms against her- 
self, —‘“ Thou liest,” she continued— Let me 20, Janet—Were 
it the last word I’ have to speak, he lies—he had his own foul 
ends to seek ; and broader he would have displayed them, had 
my passion permitted me to preserve the silence which at first 
encouraged him to unfold his vile projects.” 

PS Madam, ” said Varney, overwhelmed in spite | of his effron: 
tery, “I entreat you to believe yourself mistaken.” 

“ As soon will I believe light darkness,” said the enraged 


KENILWORTH, 239 


Countess. ‘Have I drank of oblivion? Do I remember 
former passages, which, known to Leicester, had given thee the 
preferment of a gallows, instead of the honor of this intimacy? 
—I would I were a man but for five minutes! It were space 
enough to make a craven like thee confess his villainy. But 
go—begone—Tell thy master, that when I take the foul course 
to which such scandalous deceits as thou has recommended on 
his behalf must necessarily lead me, I will give him a rival 
something worthy of the name. He shall not be supplanted 
by an ignominious lackey, whose best fortune is to catch a gift 
of luis master’s last suit of clothes ere it is threadbare, and wha 
is only fit to seduce a suburb-wench by the bravery of new 
roses in his master’s old pantofies. Go, begone sir—I scorn 
thee so much, that I am ashamed to have been angry with 
thee.” 

Varney left the room with a mute expression of rage, and 
-was followed by Foster, whose apprehension, naturally slow, 
was overpowered by the eager and abundant discharge of indig- 
nation, which for the first time, he had heard burst from the 
lips of a being, who had seemed till that moment too languid, 
and too gentle, to nurse an angry thought, or utter an intem- 
perate expression. Foster, therefore, pursued Varney from 
place to place, persecuting him with interrogatories, to which 
the other replied not, until they were in the opposite side of 
the quadrangle, and in the old library, with which the reader 
has already been made acquainted. Here he turned round on 
his persevering follower, and thus addressed him, in a tone 
tolerably equai ; that brief walk having been sufficient to give 
one so habituated to command his temper, time to rally and 
recover his presence of mind. 

“Tony,” he said, with his usual sneering laugh, “ it avails 
not to deny it. The Woman and the Devil, who as thine 
oracle Holdforth will confirm to thee, cheated man at the 
beginning, have this day proved more powerful than my discre- 
tion. Yon termagant looked so tempting, and had the art te 
preserve her countenance so naturally, while I communicated 
my. lord’s message, that, by my faith, I thought I might say 
some little thing for myself. She thinks she hath my head 
under her girdle now, but she is deceived.—Where is Doctor 
Alasco ?”’ 

‘In his laboratory,” answered Foster; “it is the hour he is 
spoken not withal—we must wait till noon is past, or spoil his 
important—What said I, important ?—I would say interrupt 
his divine studies.” 

“Ay, he studies the devil’s divinity,” said Varney,—“ but 


240 KENILWORTH. 


when I want him, one hour must suffice as well as another, 
Lead the way to his pandemonium,” 

So spoke Varney, and with hasty and perturbed steps fol- 
lowed Foster, who conducted him through private passages, 
many of which were well-nigh ruinous, to the opposite side of 
the quadrangle, where, in a subterranean apartment now oc- 
cupied by the chemist Alasco, one of the Abbots of Abingdon, 
who had a turn for the occult sciences, had, much to the scandal 
of his convent, established a laboratory, in which, like other 
fools of the period, he spent much precious time, and money 
besides, in the pursuit of the grand arcanum. 

Anthony Foster paused before the door, which was scrupu- 
lously secured within, and again showed a marked hesitation to 
disturb the sage in his operations. But Varney, less scrupu- 
lous, roused him, by knocking and voice, until at length, slowly 
and reluctantly, the inmate of the apartment undid the door. 
The chemist appeared, with his eyes bleared with the heat and 
vapors of the stove or alembic over which he brooded, and the 
interior of his cell displayed the confused assemblage of hetero- 
geneous substances and extraordinary implements belonging to 
his profession. The old man was muttering, with spiteful 
impatience, ‘Am I forever to be recalled to the affairs of earth 
from those of heaven?” 

“To the affairs of hell,” answered Varney, “ for that is thy 
proper element.—Foster, we need thee at our conference.” 

Foster slowly entered the room. Varney, following, barred 
the door, and they betook themselves to secret council. 

In the meanwhile, the Countess traversed the apartment, 
with shame and anger contending on her lovely cheek. 

“The villain,” she said, the cold-blooded calculating slave ! 
—But I unmasked him, Janet—I made the snake uncoil all 
his folds before me, and crawl abroad in his naked deformity— 
I suspended my resentment, at the danger of suffocating under 
the effort, until he had let me see the very bottom of a heart 
more foul than hell’s darkest corner.—And thou, Leicester, is 
it possible thou couldst bid me for a moment deny my wedded 
right in thee, or thyself yield it to another ?-—But it is impos- 
sible—the villain has hed in all.—Janet, I will not remain here 
longer—I fear him—TI fear thy father—I grieve to say it, Janet 
—but I fear thy father, and, worst of all, this odious Varney. 
I will escape from Cumnor.” 

‘““Alas! madam, whither would you fly, or by what means 
will you escape from these walls ?”’ 

‘““T know not, Janet,” said the unfortunate young lady, look- 
ing upward, and clasping her hands together, “I know not 


KENILWORTH. 241 


where I shall fly, or by what means; but I am certain the God 
I have served will not abandon me in this dreadful crisis, for I 
am in the hands of wicked men.” 

“Po not think so, dear lady,” said Janet; ‘‘ my father is 
stern and strict in his temper, and severely true to his trust— 
but yet ” 

At this moment Anthony Foster entered the apartment, 
bearing in his hand aglass cup, and a small flask. His manner 
was singular; for, while approaching the Countess with the 
respect due to her rank, he had till this time suffered to become 
visible, or had been unable to suppress, the obdurate sulkiness 
of his natural disposition, which, as is usual with those of his 
unhappy temper, was chiefly exerted toward those over whom 
circumstances gave him control. But at present he showed 
nothing of that sullen consciousness of authority which he was 
wont to conceal under a clumsy affectation of civility and defer- 
ence, as a ruffian hides his pistols and bludgeon under his ill 
fashioned gaberdine. And yet it seemed as if his smile was 
more in fear than courtesy, and as if, while he pressed the 
Countess to taste of the choice cordial, which should refresh 
her spirits after her late alarm, he was conscious of meditating 
some further injury. His hand trembled also, his voice faltered, 
and his whole outward behavior exhibited’ so much that was 
suspicious, that his daughter Janet, after she had stood looking 
at him in’ astonishment for some seconds, seemed at once to 
collect herself to execute some hardy resolution, raised her 
head, assumed an attitude and gait of determination and autho- 
rity, and walking siowly betwixt her father and her mistress, 
took the salver from the hand of the former, and said in a low, 
but marked and decided tone, ‘ Father, 7 will fill for niy noble 
mistress, when such is her pleasure.” 

. Thou, my child?” said Foster, eagerly and apprehensively ; 
“no, my ‘child—it is not ¢#ow shalt tender the lady this 
service.” 

‘And why, I pray you,” said Janet, “if it be fitting that the 
noble lady should partake of the cup at all?” 

“ Why—why?” said the seneschal, hesitating, and then 
bursting into passion as the readiest mode of supplying the 
lack of all other reason—‘‘ Why, because it is my pleasure, 
minion, that you should not!—Get you gone to the evening 
lecture.” 

“ Now, as I hope to hear lecture again,” replied Janet, “I 
will not go thither this night, unless I am better assured of my 
mistress’s safety. Give me that flask, father;—and she took 
it from his reluctant hand, while he resigned it as if conscience: 


242 KENILWORTH. 


struck—* And now,” she said, ‘ father, that which shall benefit 
my mistress cannot do me prejudice. Father, I drink to you.” 

Foster, without speaking a word, rushed on his daughter 
and wrested the flask from her hand; then, as if embarrassed 
by what he had done, and totally unable to resolve what he 
should do next, he stood with it in his hand, one foot advanced 
and the other drawn back, glaring on his daughter with a 
countenance, in which rage, fear, and convicted villainy, formed 
a hideous combination. 

“This is strange, my father,” said Janet, keeping her eye 
fixed on his, in the manner in which those who have the charge 
of lunatics are said to overawe their unhappy patients; “ will 
you neither let me serve my lady, nor drink to her myself?” 

The courage of the Countess sustained her through this 
dreadful scene, of which the import was not the less obvious 
that it was not even hinted at. She preserved even the rash 
carelessness of her temper, and though her cheek had grown 
pale at the first alarm, her eye was calm, and almost scornful, 
“‘ Will you taste this rare cordial, Master Foster? Perhaps you 
will not yourself refuse to pledge us, though you permit not 
Janet to do so—Drink, sir, I pray you.” 

“* T will not,” answered Foster. 

‘And for whom, then, is the precious beverage reserved, 
_ sir?” said the Countess. 

“For the devil, who brewed it!” answered Foster: and, 
turning on his heel, he left the chamber. 

Janet looked at her mistress with a countenance expressive 
in the highest degree of shame, dismay, and sorrow. 

“Do not weep for me, Janet,”’ said the Countess. 

‘No, madam,” replied her attendant, in a voice broken by 
sobs, ‘it is not for you I weep, it is for myself—it is for that 
unhappy man. ‘Those who are dishonored before man—those » 
who are condemned by God, have cause to mourn—not those 
who are innocent !—Farewell, madam !”’ she said, hastily as- 
suming the mantle in which she was wont to go abroad. 

‘Do you leave me, Janet?” said her mistress—‘ desert me 
in such an evil strait?” 

“Desert you, madam !”’ exclaimed Janet ; and running back 
to her mistress, she imprinted a thousand kisses on her hand 
—‘‘ desert you !—may the Hope of my trust desert me when I do 
so!—No madam; well you said the God you serve will open 
you a path for deliverance. ‘There is a way of escape; I have 
prayed night and day for light, that I might see how to act 
betwixt my duty to yonder unhappy man, and that which I 
owe to you. Sternly and fearfully that light has now dawned, 


KENILWORTH. 243 


and I must not shut the door which God opens.—Ask me no 
more. I will return in brief space.” 

So speaking, she wrapped herself in her mantle, and saying 
to the old woman whom she passed in the outer room, that she 
was going to evening prayer, she left the house. 

Meanwhile her father had reached once more the laboratory, 
where he found the accomplices of his intended guilt. 

“Flas the sweet bird sipped?” said Varney, with half a 
smile; while the astrologer put the same quesden with his eyes, 
but spoke not a word, 

“She has not, nor she shall not from my hands,” replied 
Foster; “would you have me do murder in my daughter’s 
presence ?” 

“Wert thou not told, thou sullen and yet faint-hearted 
slave,’ answered Varney, with bitterness, “that no murder, as 
thou call’st it, with that staring look and stammering tone, is 
designed in the matter? Wert thou not told, that.a_ brief ill- 
ness, such as woman puts on in very wantonness, that she may 
wear her night-gear at noon, and lie on a settle when she 
should mind her domestic business, is all here aimed at? Here 
is a learned man will swear it to thee by the key of the Castle 
of Wisdom.” 

“‘T swear it,’’ said Alasco, “that the elixir thou hast there 
in the flask will not prejudice life! I swear it by that immortal 
and indestructible quintessence of gold, which pervades every 
substance in nature, though its secret existence can be traced 
by him only to whom Trismegistus renders the key of the 
Cabala.” 

“An oath of force,” said Varney. ‘ Foster, thou wert 
worse than a Pagan to disbelieve it. Believe me, moreover, 
who swear by nothing but by my own word, that if you be not 
conformable, there is no hope, no, not a glimpse of hope, that 
this thy leasehold may be transmuted into a copyhold. ‘Thus, 
Alasco will leave your pewter artillery untransmigrated, and I, 
honest Anthony, will still have thee for my tenant.” 

“T know not, gentlemen,” said Foster, ‘ where your designs 
tend to; but in one thing I am bound up,—that, fall back fall 
edge, I will have one in this place that may pray for me, and 
that one shall be my daughter. I have lived ill, and the world 
has been too weighty with me; but she is as innocent as ever 
she was when on her mother’s lap, and she, at least, shall have 
her portion in that happy City, whose walls are of pure gold, 
and the foundations garnished with all manner of precious 
stones.” 

“Ay, Tony,” said Varney, “that were a paradise to thy 


244 KENILWORTH. 


heart’s content.—Debate the matter with him, Doctor Alasco ; 
I will be with you anon.” 

So speaking, Varney arose, and taking the flask from the 
table, he left the room. 

“I tell thee, my son,” said Alasco to Foster, as soon as 
Varney had left them, “ that whatever this bold and profligate 
railer may say of the mighty science, in which, by Heavet.’s 
blessing, I have advanced so far, that I would not call the wisest 
of living artists my better or my teacher—I say, howsoever yonder 
reprobate may scoff at things too holy to be apprehended by 
men merely of carnal and evil thoughts, yet believe, that the 
city beheld by St. John, in that bright vision of the Christian 
Apocalypse, that New Jerusalem, of which all Christian men 
hope to partake, sets forth typically the discovery of the 
GRAND SECRET, whereby the most precious and perfect of 
nature’s works are elicited out of her basest and most crude 
productions ; just as the light and gaudy butterfly, the most 
beautiful child of the summer’s breeze, breaks forth from the 
dungeon of a sordid chrysalis.” 

““Master Holdforth said nought of this exposition,” said 
Foster doubtfully ; “‘and moreover, Doctor Alasco, the Holy 
Writ says, that the gold and precious stones of the Holy City 
are in no sort for those who work abomination, or who frame 
lies.” l 

‘““ Well, my son,” said the Doctor, “ and what is your inference 
from thence? ”’ 

“That those,” said Foster, ‘‘ who distil poisons, and admin- 
ister them in secrecy, can have no portion in those unspeakable 
riches.” 

“You are to distinguish, my son,” replied the alchemist, 
“betwixt that which is necessarily evil in its progress and in 
its end also, and that which, being evil, is nevertheless, capable 
of working forth good. If, by the death of one person, the 
happy period shall be brought nearer to us, in which all that is 
good shall be attained, by wishing its presence—all that is evil 
escaped, by desiring its absence—in which sickness, and pain, 
and sorrow, shall be the obedient servants of human wisdom,— 
and made to fly at the slightest signal of a sage,—in which that 
which is now richest and rarest shall be within the compass of 
every one who shall be obedient to the voice of wisdom,—when 
the art of healing shall be lost and absorbed in the one universal 
medicine,—when sages shall become monarchs of the earth, and 
death itself retreat before their frown,—if this blessed con- 
summation of all things can be hastened by the slight cir 
cumstance, that a frail earthly body, which must needs partake 


9 


? 


KENILWORTH. 248 


corruption, shall be consigned to the grave a short space earlier 
than in the course of nature, what is sucha sacrifice to the ad- 
vancement of the holy Millennium ?”’ 

“Millennium is the reign of the Saints,” said Foster, some- 
what doubtfully. 

“¢ Say itis the reign of the Sages, my son,” answered Alasco ; 
“or rather the reign of Wisdom itself.” 

“I touched on the question with Master Holdforth last ex- 
ercising night,” said Foster; ‘‘ but he says your doctrine is heter- 
odox, and a damnable and false exposition.” 

“ He is in the bonds of ignorance, my son,” answered Alasco 
“and as yet burning bricks in Egypt; or, at best, wandering in 
the dry desert of Sinai. Thou didst.ill to speak to such a man 
of such matters. I will, however, give thee proof, and that 
shortly, which I will defy that peevish divine to confute, though 
he should strive with me as the magicians strove with Moses 
before King Pharaoh. Iwill do projection in thy presence, my 
son,—in thy very presence, and thine eyes shall witness the 
truth.” 

“Stick to that, learned sage,” said Varney, who at this 
moment entered the apartment ; “if he refuse the testimony of 
thy tongue, yet how shall he deny that of his own eyes ?” 

“Varney!” said the adept—‘“ Varney already returned! 
Hast thou ’”———he stopped short. 

“Have I done mine errand, thou wouldst say,” replied 
Varney—“I have !—And thou,’ he added, showing more 
symptoms of interest than he had hitherto exhibited, “ art thou 
sure thou hast poured forth neither more nor less than the just 
measure?” 

“ Ay,” replied the alchemist, “as sure as man can be in these 
nice proportions ; for there is diversity of constitutions.” 

“‘ Nay, then,” said Varney, “I fear nothing. I know thou 
wilt not go a step further to the devil than thou art justly 
considered for. ‘Thou wert paid to create illness, and wouldst 
esteem it thriftless prodigality to do murder at the same price. 
Come, let us each to our chamber—We shall see the event 
to-morrow.” 

“What didst thou do to make her swallow it?” said Foster, 
shuddering. 

“Nothing,” answered Varney, “but looked on her with 
that aspect which governs madmen, women, and children. 
They told me, in Saint Luke’s Hospital, that I have the right 
look for overpowering a refractory patient. ‘The keepers made 
me their compliments on’t; so I know how to win my bread, 
when my court-favor fails me.” 


246 KENILWORTH. 


“And art thou not afraid,” said Foster, “lest the dose be 
disproportioned ? ” 

“Tf so,” replied Varney, “she will but sleep the sounder, 
and the fear of that shall not break my rest. Good night, my 
masters.” 

Anthony Foster groaned heavily, and lifted up his hands 
and eyes. The alchemist intimated his purpose to continue 
some experiment of high import during the greater part of the 
night, and the others separated to their places of repose. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. 


Now God be good to me in this wild pilgrimage ! 
All hope in human aid I cast behind me. 
Oh, who would be a woman ?—who that fool, 
A weeping, pining, faithful, loving woman ? 
She hath hard measure still where she hopes kindest, 
And all her bounties only make ingrates. 
LOvE’s PILGRIMAGE. 


THE summer evening was closed, and Janet, just when her 
longer stay might have occasioned suspicion and inquiry in 
that jealous household, returned to Cumnor Place, and hastened 
to the apartment in which she had left her lady. She found 
her with her head resting on her arms, and these crossed upon 
a table which stood before her. As Janet came in, she neither 
looked up nor stirred. 

Her faithful attendant ran to her mistress with the speed 
of lightning, and rousing her at the same time with her hand, 
conjured the Countess, in the most earnest manner, to look up, 
and say what thus affected her. The unhappy lady raised her 
head accordingly, and looking on her attendant with a ghastly 
eye, and cheek as pale as clay, “Janet,” she said, “I have 
drunk it.” 

“God be praised!” said Janet, hastily—“I mean, God be 
praised that it is no worse—the potion will not harm you.— 
Rise, shake this lethargy from your limbs, and this despair 
from your mind.” 

“Janet,” repeated the Countess again, ‘‘ disturb me not— 
leave me at peace—let life pass quietly,—I am poisoned.” 

“You are not, my dearest lady,” answered the maiden, 
eagerly—“ What you have swallowed cannot injure you, for the 
antidote has been taken before it, and I hastened hither to tell 
you that the means of escape are open to you.” 


KENILWORTH. 249 


“Escape!” exclaimed the lady, as she raised herself hastily 
in her chair, while light returned to her eye and life to her 
cheek; ‘‘but ah! Janet, it comes too late.” 

“Not so, dearest lady—Rise, take mine arm, walk through 
the apartment—Let not fancy do the work of poison!—So; 
feel you not now that you are possessed of the full use of your 
limbs ?” 

“The torpor seems to diminish,” said the Countess, as, 
supported by Janet, she walked to and fro in the apartment; 
“but is it then so, and have I not swallowed a deadly draught? 
Varney was here since thou wert gone, and commanded me, 
with eyes in which I read my fate, to swallow yon horrible 
drug. Oh, Janet! it must be fatal; never was harmless drug 
served by such a cup-bearer ! ” 

‘“‘ He did not deem it harmless, J fear,” replied the maiden ; 
“but God confounds the devices of the wicked. Believe me, 
as I swear by the dear Gospel in which we trust, your life: is 
safe from his practice. Did you not debate with him ?” 

“The house was silent,” answered the lady—“ thou gone— 
no other but he in the chamber—and he capable of every 
crime—I did but stipulate he would remove his hateful pres- 
ence, and I drank whatever he offered.—But you spoke of 
escape, Janet; can I be so happy?” 

“ Are you strong enough to bear the tidings, and make the 
effort ?”’ said the maiden. 

“Strong!” answered the Countess—‘“ Ask the hind, when 

the fangs of the deer-hound are stretched to grip her, if she is 
strong enough to spring overachasm. I am equal to every 
effort that may relieve me from this place.” 
_.“ Hear me, then,’ said Janet. ‘One, whom I deem an 
assured friend of yours, has shown himself to me in various 
disguises, and sought speech of me, which,—for my mind was 
not clear on the matter until this evening,—I have ever de- 
clined. He was the pedler who brought you goods—the itiner- 
ant hawker who sold me books—whenever I stirred abroad I 
was sure to see him. The event of this night determined me 
to speak with him. He waits even now at the postern-gate of 
the park with means for your flight.—But have you strength of 
body ?—Have you courage of mind ?—Can you undertake the 
enterprise ? ” 

“ She that flies from death,” said the lady, “finds strength 
of body—she that would escape from shame, lacks no strength 
of mind, The thoughts of leaving behind me the villain who 
ménaces both my life and honor, would give me strength to rise 
from my death-bed.” 


248 KENILWORTH. 


“In God’s name, then, lady,” said Janet, “I must bid you 
adieu, and to God’s ‘char ge I must commit you!” 

“Will you not fly with me, then, Janet?” said the Coun- 
tess, anxiously—“‘ Am I to lose thee? Is this thy faithful 
service ?” 

“ Lady, I would fly with you as willingly as a bird ever fled 
from cage, but my doing so would occasion instant discovery 
and pursuit. I must remain, and use means to disguise the 
truth for some time—-May Heaven pardon the falsehood, be- 
cause of the necessity ! ” 

“And am I then to travel alone with this stranger?” said 
the lady—‘“ Bethink thee, Janet, may not this prove some 
deeper and darker scheme to separate me perhaps from oe 
who are my only friend ?” 

““No, madam, do not suppose it,” answered Janet, readily, 
“the youth is an honest youth in his purpose to you; and a 
friend to Mr. Tressilian, under whose direction he has come 
hither.” 

“Tf he be a friend of Tressilian,’’ said the Countess, “I 
will commit myself to his charge, as to that of an angel sent 
from Heaven; for than Tressilian, never breathed mortal man 
more free of whatever was base, false, or selfish. He forgot 
himself whenever he could be of use to others—Alas | ! and how 
was he requited ! ” 

With eager haste they collected the few necessaries which 
it was thought proper the Countess should take with her, and 
which Janet, with speed and dexterity, formed into a small 
bundle, not forgetting to add such ornaments of intrinsic value 
as came most readily in her way, and particularly a casket of 
jewels, which she wisely judged might prove of service in some 
future emergency. ‘The Countess of Leicester next changed 
her dress for one which Janet usually wore upon any brief 
journey, for they judged it necessary to avoid every external 
distinction which might attract attention. Ere these prepara- 
tions were fully made, the moon had arisen iff the summer 
heaven, and all in the mansion had betaken themselves to rest, 
or at least to the silence and retirement of their chambers. 

There was no difficulty anticipated in escaping, whether 
from the house or garden, provided only they could elude 
observation. Anthony Foster had accustomed himself to con- 
sider his daughter as a conscious sinner might regard a visible 
guardian angel, which, notwithstanding his guilt, continued to 
hover around him, and therefore his trust in her knew no 
bounds. Janet commanded her own motions during the day- 
time, and had a master-key which opened the postern-door of 


KENILWORTH. 249 


the park, so that she could go to the village at pleasure, either 
upon the household affairs, which were entirely confided to her 
management, or to attend her devotions at the meeting-house 
of her sect. It is true, the daughter of Foster was thus liber- 
ally intrusted under the solemn condition that she should not 
avail herself of these privileges to do anything inconsistent with 
the safe-keeping of the Countess; for so her residence at Cum: 
nor Place had been termed, since she began of late to exhibit 
impatience of the restrictions to which she was subjected. Nor 
is there reason to suppose, that anything short of the dreadful 
suspicions which the scene of that evening had excited, could 
have induced Janet to violate her word, or deceive her father’s 
confidence. But from what she had witnessed, she now con- 
ceived herself not only justified, but imperatively called upon, 
to make her lady’s safety the principal object of her care, set- 
ting all other considerations aside. 

The fugitive Countess, with her guide, traversed with hasty 
steps the broken and interrupted path, which had once been an 
avenue, now totally darkened by the boughs of spreading trees 
which met above their head, and now receiving a doubtful and 
deceiving light from the beams of the moon, which penetrated 
where the axe had made openings in the wood. Their path 
was repeatedly interrupted by felled trees, or the large boughs 
which had been left on the ground till time served to make 
them into fagots and billets. The inconvenience and difficulty 
attending these interruptions, the breathless haste of the first 
part of their route, the exhausting sensations of hope and fear, 
so much affected the Countess’s strength, that Janet was forced 
to propose that they should pause for a few minutes to recover 
breath and spirits. Both therefore stood still beneath the 
shadow of a huge old gnarled oak-tree, and both naturally looked 
back to the mansion which they had left behind them, whose 
long dark front was seen in the gloomy distance, with its huge 
stacks of chimneys, turrets, and clock-house, rising above the 
line of the roof, and definedly visible against the pure azure 
blue of the summer sky. One light only twinkled from the 
extended and shadowy mass, and it was placed so low, that it 
rather seemed to glimmer from the ground in front of the 
mansion, than from one of the windows. The Countess’s terror 
was awakened.—‘“ They follow us !”’ she said, pointing out to 
Janet the light which thus alarmed her, 

Less agitated than her mistress, Janet perceived that the 
gleam was stationary, and informed the Countess, in a whisper, 
that the light. proceeded from the solitary cell in which the 
alchemist pursued his occult experiments.—“ He is of those,” 


250 KENILWORTH. 


she added, “ who sit up and watch by night that they may 
commit iniquity. Evil was the chance which sent hither a 
man, whose mixed speech of earthly wealth and unearthly or 
superhuman knowledge, hath in it what doth so especially 
captivate my poor father. Well spoke the good Master Hold- 
forth—and, methought, not without meaning that those of 
our household should find therein a practical use. ‘ There be 
those,’ he said, ‘and their number is legion, who will rather, 
like the wicked Ahab, listen to the dreams of the false prophet 
Zedechias, than to the words of him by whom the Lord has 
spoken.’ And he further insisted—‘ Ah, my brethren, there 
be many Zedechiases among you—men that promise you the 
light of their carnal knowledge, so you will surrender to them 
that of your heavenly understanding. What are they better 
than the tyrant Naas, who demanded the right eye of those who 
were subjected to him?’ And further he insisted ” 

It is uncertain how long the fair puritan’s memory might 
have supported her in the recapitulation of Master Holdforth’s 
discourse ; but the Countess now interrupted her, and assured 
her she was so much recovered that she could now reach the 
postern without the necessity of a second delay. 

They set out accordingly, and performed the second part of 
their journey with more deliberation, and of course more easily, 
than the first hasty commencement. This gave them leisure 
for reflection; and Janet now, for the first time, ventured to 
ask her lady, which way she proposed to direct her flight. 
Receiving no immediate answer—for, perhaps, in the confusion 
of her mind, this very obvious subject of deliberation had not 
occurred to the Countess—Janet ventured to add, “ Probably 
to your father’s house, where you are sure of safety and pro- 
tection ?”’ 

“No, Janet,” said the Lady, mournfully, “ I left Lidcote Hal} 
while my heart was light and my name was honorable, and I 
will not return thither till my lord’s permission and public 
acknowledgment of our marriage restore me to my native 
home, with all the rank and honor which he has bestowed 
on me.” 

“And whither will you, then, madam ?” said Janet. 

“ To Kenilworth, girl,” said the Countess, boldly and freely. 
“ T will see these revels—these princely revels-—the preparation 
for which makes the land ring from side to side. Methinks, 
when the Queen of England feasts within my husband’s halls, 
the Countess of Leicester should be no unbeseeming guest.” 

‘“‘T pray God you may be a welcome one! ” said Janet, hastily 


KENILWORTH. 25%: 


“You abuse my situation, Janet,” said the Countess, angrily, 
“and you forget your own.” 

‘I do neither, dearest madam,” said the sorrowful maiden; 
“but have you forgotten that the noble Earl has given such 
strict charges to keep your marriage secret, that he may pre- 
serve his court-favor? and can you think that your sudden 
appearance at his castle, at such a juncture, and in such a 
presence, will be acceptable to him?” 

“Thou thinkest I would disgrace him,” said the Countess ;—— 
“nay, let go my arm, I can walk without aid, and work without 
counsel.” 

“ Be not angry with me, lady,” said Janet, meekly, “and 
let me still support you ; the road is rough, and you are little 
accustomed to walk in darkness.” 

“ If you deem me not so mean as may disgrace my hus- 
band,” said the Countess, in the same resentful tone, “you 
suppose my Lord of Leicester capable of abetting, perhaps of 
giving aim and authority, to the base proceedings of your father 
and Varney, whose errand I will do to the good Earl.” 

‘“‘ For God’s sake, madam, spare my father in your report,” 
said Janet; ‘‘ let my services, however poor, be some atonement 
for his errors!” 

“I were most unjust, dearest Janet, were it otherwise,” 
said the Countess, resuming at once the fondness and confi 
dence of her manner toward her faithful attendant. ‘“ No, 
Janet, not a word of mine shall do your father prejudice. But 
thou seest, my love, I have no desire but to throw myself on 
my husband’s protection. I have left the abode he resigned 
for me because of the villainy of the persons by whom I was 
surrounded—but I will disobey his commands in no other par- 
ticular. I will appeal to him alone—I will be protected by 
him alone—To no other, than at his pleasure, have I or will I 
communicate the secret union which combines our hearts and 
our destinies. I will see him, and receive from his own lips 
the directions for my future conduct. Do not argue against 
my resolution, Janet; you will only confirm me in it, and to own 
the truth, I am resolved to know my fate at once, and from my 
husband’s own mouth, and to seek him at Kenilworth is the 
surest way to attain my purpose.” 

While Janet hastily revolved in her mind the difficulties and 
uncertainties attendant on the unfortunate lady’s situation, she 
was inclined to alter her first opinion, and to think, upon the 
whole, that since the Countess had withdrawn herself from the 
retreat in which she had been placed by her husband, it was 
her first duty to repair to his presence, and possess him with 


252 KENILWORTH. 


the reasons of such conduct. She knew what importance the 
Earl attached to the concealment of their marriage, and could 
not but own, that by taking any step to make it public without 
his permission, the Countess would incur, in a high degree, the 
indignation of her husband. If she retired to her father’s 
house without an explicit avowal of her rank, her situation was 
likely greatly to prejudice her character; and if she made such 
an avowal, it might occasion an irreconcilable breach with her 
husband, At Kenilworth, again, she might plead her cause 
with her husband himself, whom Janet, though distrusting him 
more than the Countess did, believed incapable of being acces- 
sary to the base and desperate means which his dependants, 
from whose power the lady was now escaping, might resort to, 
in order to stifle her complaints of the treatment she had re- 
ceived at their hands. But at the worst, and were the Earl 
himself to deny her justice and protection, still at Kenilworth, 
if she chose to make her wrongs public, the Countess might 
have Tressilian for her advocate, and the Queen for her Judge ; 
for so much Janet had learned in her short conference with 
Wayland. She was, therefore, on the whole, reconciled to her 
lady’s proposal of going toward Kenilworth, and so expressed 
herself ; recommending, however, to the Countess the utmost 
caution in making her arrival known to her husband. 

“Hast thou thyself been cautious, Janet?” said the Count- 
ess; ‘this guide, in whom I must put my confidence, hast thou 
not intrusted to him the secret of my condition?” 

*“ From me he has learned nothing,” said Janet; “nor do I 
think that he knows more than what the public in general 
believe of your situation.” 

* And what is that?” said the lady. 

“That you left your father’s house—but I shall offend you 
again if I go on,” said Janet, interrupting herself. 

** Nay, go on,” said the Countess ; ‘‘ I must learn to endure 
the evil report which my folly has brought upon me. They 
think, I suppose, that I have left my father’s house to follow 
lawless pleasure—It is an error which will soon be removed— 
indeed it shall, for I will live with spotless fame, or I shall 
cease to live.—I am accounted, then, the paramour of my 
eicester.2): 

““ Most men say of Varney,” said Janet ; ‘yet some call 
him only the convenient cloak of his masters’s pleasures ; for 
reports of the profuse expense in garnishing yonder apartments 
have secretly gone abroad, and such doings far surpass the 
means of Varney. But this latter opinion is little prevalent ; 
for men dare hardly even hint suspicion when so high a name is 


KENILWORTH. 253 


concerned, lest the Star-chamber should punish them for 
scandal of the nobility.” 

“They do well to speak low,” said the Countess, “ who would 
mention the illustrious Dudley as the accomplice of such e 
wretch as Varney.—We have reached the postern—Ah! Janet, 
I must bid thee farewell !—Weep not, my good girl,” said she, 
endeavoring to cover her own reluctance to part with her faith- 
ful attendant under an attempt at playfulness, “‘and against 
we meet again, reform me, Janet, that precise ruff of thine for 
an open rabatine of lace and cut work, that will let men see 
thou hast a fair neck; and that kirtle of Philippine chency, 
with that bugle lace which befits only a chamber-maid, into 
three-piled velvet and cloth of gold—thou wilt find plenty of 
stuffs in my chamber, and I freely bestow them on you. Thou 
must be brave, Janet ; for though thou art now but the attend- 
ant of a distressed and errant lady, who is both nameless and 
fameless, yet when we meet again, thou must be dressed as be- 
comes the gentlewoman nearest in love and in service to the 
first Countess in England.” 

“Now, may God grant it, dear lady!” said Janet ;—*“ not 
that I may go with gayer apparel, but that we may both wear 
our kirtles over lighter hearts.” 

By this time the lock of the postern-door had, after some 
hard wrenching, yielded to the master-key ; and the Countess, 
not without internal shuddering, saw herself beyond the walls 
which her husband’s strict commands had assigned to her as 
the boundary of her walks. Waiting with much anxiety for 
their appearance, Wayland Smith stood at some distance, 
shrouding himself behind a hedge which bordered the high 
road, 

“Ts all safe?” said Janet to him, anxiously, as he ap- 
proached them with caution. 

“* All,” he replied; ‘‘ but I have been unable to procure a 
horse for the lady. Giles Gosling, the cowardly hilding, re- 
fused me one on any terms whatever ; lest, forsooth, he should 
suffer—but no matter. She must ride on my palfrey, and I must 
walk by her side until I come by another horse. ‘There will be 
no pursuit, if you, pretty Mistress Janet, forget not thy lesson.” 

“ No more than the wise widow of Tekoa forgot the words 
which Joab put into her mouth,” answered Janet. ‘ To-morrow, 
I say that my lady is unable to rise.” 

“ Ay, and that she have aching and heaviness of the head— 
a throbbing at the heart, and lists not to be disturbed.—Fear 
not; they will take the hint, and trouble thee with few questions 
—they understand the disease,” 


254 KENILWORTH. 


“But,” said the Lady, “ my absence must be soon discovered, 
and they will murder her in revenge.—I will rather return than 
expose her to such danger.” 

“Be at ease on my account, madam,” said Janet; “I would 
you were as sure of receiving the favor you desire from those 
to whom you must make appeal, as I am that my father, how- 
ever angry, will suffer no harm to befall me.” 

The Countess was now placed by Wayland upon his horse, 
around the saddle of which he had placed his cloak, so folded 
as to make a commodious seat. 

“ Adieu, and may the blessing of God wend with you!” said 
Janet, again kissing her mistress’s hand, who returned her ben- 
ediction with a mute caress. They then tore themselves asun- 
der, and Janet, addressing Wayland, exclaimed, ‘‘ May Heaven 
deai with you at your need, as you are true or false to this most 
injured and most helpless lady !” 

** Amen! dearest Janet,” replied Wayland ;—“ and believe 
me, I will so acquit myself of my trust, as may tempt even 
your pretty eyes, saint-like as they are, to look less scornfully 
on me when we next meet.” 

The latter part of this adieu was whispered into Janet’s 
ear; and, although she made no reply to it directly yet her 
manner, influenced no doubt by her desire to leave every mo- 
tive in force which could operate toward her mistress’s safety, 
did not discourage the hope which Wayland’s words expressed. 
She re-entered the postern-door, and locked it behind her, while 
Wayland, taking the horse’s bridle in his hand, and walking close 
by its head, they began in silence their dubious and moonlight 
journey. 

Although Wayland Smith used the utmost despatch which 
he could make, yet this mode of traveling was so slow, that 
when morning began to dawn through the eastern mist, he 
found. himself no further than about ten miles distant from 
Cumnor. ‘‘ Now a plague upon all smooth-spoken hosts!” 
said Wayland, unable longer to suppress his mortification and 
uneasiness. “Had the false loon, Giles Gosling, but told me 
plainly two days since, that I was to reckon nought upon him, 
I had shifted better for myself. But your hosts have such a 
custom of promising whatever is called for, that it is not till 
the steed is to be shod you find they are out of iron. Had I 
but known, I could have made twenty shifts; nay, for that 
matter, and in so good a cause, I would have thought little to 
have prigged a prancer from the next common—it had but been 
sending back the brute to the head borough. The farcy and 


KENILWORTH, oes 


the founders confound every horse in the stables of the Black 
Bear |” 

The lady endeavored to comfort her guide, observing, that 
the dawn would enable him to made more speed. 

“ ‘True, madam,” he replied; “ but then it will enable other 
folk to take note of us, and that may prove an ill beginning of 
our journey. I had not cared a spark from anvil about the 
matter, had we been further advanced on our way. But this 
Berkshire has been notoriously haunted ever since I knew the 
country, with that sort of malicious elves, who sit up late and 
rise early, for no other purpose than to pry into other folk’s 
affairs. | have been endangered by them ere now. But donot 
fear,” he added, “ good madam; for wit meeting with oppor- 
tunity, will not miss to find a salve for every sore.” 

The alarms of her guide made more impression on the 
Countess’s mind than the comfort which he judged fit to ad- 
minister along with it. She looked anxiously around her, and 
as the shadows withdrew from the landscape, and the heighten- 
ing glow of the eastern sky promised the speedy rise of the sun. 
expected at every turn that the increasing light would expose 
them to the view of the vengerful pursuers, or present some 
dangerous and insurmountable obstacle to the prosecution of 
their journey. Wayland Smith perceived her uneasiness, and, 
displeased with himself for having given her cause of alarm, 
strode on with affected alacrity, now talking to the horse as one 
expert in the language of the stable, now whistling to himself 
low and interrupted snatches of tunes, and now assuring the 
lady there was no danger; while at the same time he looked 
sharply around to see that there was nothing in sight, which 
might give the lie to his words while they were issuing from 
his mouth. Thus did they journey on, until an unexpected 
incident gave them the means of continuing their pilgrimage 
with more speedy convenience. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. 


Richard. A horse !—a horse !—my kingdom for a horse ! 
Catesby. My lord, I’ll help you to a horse, 


RICHARD III, 


Our travelers were in the act of passing a small thicket of 
trees close by the road side, wher the first living being presented 
himself whom they had seen since their departure from Cumnot 


256 7 KENILWORTH. 


Place. This was a stupid lout, seemingly a farmer’s boy, in a 
gray jerkin, with his head bare, his hose about his heefs, and 
huge startups upon his feet. He held by the bridle what of all 
things they most wanted, a palfrey, namely, with a side-saddle, 
and all other garniture for a woman’s mounting ; and he hailed 
Wayland Smith with, “ Zur, be ye zure the party ? ” 

“‘ Ay, that I be, my lad,” answered Wayland, without an 
instant’s hesitation ; and it must be owned that consciences, 
trained in a stricter school of morality, might have given way 
to an occasion so tempting. While he spoke, he caught the 
rein out of the boy’s hand, and almost at the same time helped 
down the Countess from his own horse, and aided her to mount 
on that which chance had thus presented for her acceptance. 
Indeed so naturally did the whole take place, that the Countess, 
as it afterward appeared, never suspected but that the horse 
had been placed there to meet them by the precaution of the 
guide, or some of his friends. 

The lad, however, who was thus hastily dispossessed of his 
charge, began to stare hard, and scratch his head, as if'seized 
with some qualms of conscience for delivering up the animal on 
such brief explanation.-—“ I be right zure thou be’st the party,” 
said he, muttering to himself, “ but thou shouldst ha zaid Beans, 
thou knaw’st.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Wayland, speaking at a venture ; “and thou 
Bacon, thou know’st.” 

“* Noa, noa,” said the lad; “ bide ye—bide ye—it was Peas 
a should ha said.” 

“ Well, well,’ answered Wayland, “ peas be it, a God’s 
name ! though bacon were the better pass-word.” 

And being by this time mounted on his own horse, he caught 
the rein of the palfrey fromthe uncertain hold of the hesitating 
young boor, flung him asmall piece of money, and made amends 
for lost time by riding briskly off without further parley. 
The lad was still visible from the hill up which they were riding, 
and Wayland, as he looked back, beheld him standing with his 
fingers in his hair as immovable as a guide-post, and his head 
turned in the direction in which they were escaping from him. 
At length, just as they topped the hill, he saw the clown stoop 
to lift up the silver groat which his benevolence had imparted. 
—‘‘ Now this is what I call a God-send,” said Wayland; “this 
is a bonny well-ridden bit of a going thing, and it will carry 
us so far till we get you as well mounted, and then we will send 
it back time enough to satisfy the Hue and Cry.” 

But he was deceived in his expectations; and fate, which 
seemed at first to promise so fairly, soon threatened to turn 


KENILWORTH. 257. 


the incident, which he thus gloried in, into the cause of theit 
utter ruin, 

They had not ridden a short mile from the place where 
they left the lad, before they heard a man’s voice shouting on 
the wind behind them, “ Robbery! robbery !—Stop thief!” 
and similar exclamations, which Wayland’s conscience readily 
assured him must arise out of the transaction to which he had 
been just accessary. 

“I had better have gone barefoot all my life,” he said ; ‘it 
is the Hue and Cry, and I am a lost man. Ah! Wayland, 
Wayland, many a time thy father said horse-flesh would be the 
death of thee. Were I once safe among the horse-coursers in 
Smithfield, or Turnball Street, they should have leave to hang 
me as high as St. Paul’s, if I e’er meddled more with nobles, 
knights, or gentlewomen.” | 

Amidst these dismal reflections he turned his head repeat- 
edly to see by whom he was chased, and was much comforted 
when he could only discover a single rider, who was, however, 
well mounted, and came after them at a speed which left them 
no chance of escaping, even had the lady’s strength permitted 
her to ride as fast as her palfrey might have been able to 
gallop. 

“There may be fair play betwixt us, sure,” thought Way- 
land, “ where there is but one man on each side, and yonder 
fellow sits on his horse more like a monkey than a cavalier. 
Pshaw! if it come to the worst, it will be easy unhorsing him. 
Nay, ’snails! I think his horse will take the matter in his 
own hand, for he has the bridle betwixt his teeth. _Oons, what 
care I for him?” said he, as the pursuer drew yet nearer; 
“it is but the little animal of a mercer from Abingdon, when 
all is over.” 

Even so it was, as the experienced eye of Wayland had 
descried at a distance. For the valiant mercer’s horse, whick 
was a beast of mettle, feeling himself put to his speed, and 
discerning a couple of horses riding fast, at some hundred 
yards’ distance before him, betook himself to the road with such 
alacrity as totally deranged the seat of his rider, who not only 
came up with, but passed, at full gallop, those whom he had 
been pursuing, pulling the reins with all his might, and ejacu- 
lating “Stop! stop!” an interjection which seemed rather to 
regard his own palfrey, than what seamen call “ the chase.” 
With the same involuntary speed, he shot ahead (to use an 
other nautical phrase) about a furlong, ere he was able to stop 
and turn his horse, and then rode back toward our travelers, 
adjusting, as well as he could, his disordered dress, resettling 


258 KENILWORTH. 


himself in the saddle, and endeavoring to substitute a bold 
and martial frown, for the confusion and dismay which sate 
upon his visage during his involuntary career. 

Wayland had just time to caution the lady not to be 
alarmed, adding, ‘‘’This fellow is a gull, and I will use him as 
such.” 

When the mercer had recovered breath and audacity 
enough to confront them, he ordered Wayland, in a menacing 
tone, to deliver up his palfrey. 

“How?” said the smith, in King Cambyses’ vein, “ are 
we commanded to stand and deliver on the King’s highway? 
Then out, Excalibar, and tell this knight of prowess that dire 
blows must decide between us!” 

‘Haro and help, and hue and cry, every true man!” said 
the mercer; “I am withstood in seeking to recover mine 
own!” 

“Thou swearest thy gods in vain, foul paynim,” said Way- 
land, ‘for I will through with my purpose were death at the 
end on’t. Nevertheless, know, thou false man of frail cambric 
and ferrateen, that I am he, even the pedler, whom thou didst 
boast to meet on Maiden-castle moor, and despoil of his pack ; 
wherefore betake thee to thy weapons presently.” 

““T spoke but in jest, man,” said Goldthred; “Iam an 
honest shopkeeper and citizen, who scorns to leap forth on any 
man from behind a hedge.” 

“Then, by my faith, most puissant mercer,” answered Way- 
land, “I am sorry for my vow, which was, that wherever I 
met thee I would despoil thee of thy palfrey, and bestow it 
upon my leman, unless thou couldst defend it by blows of force. 
But the vow is passed and registered, and all that I can do 
for thee, is to leave the horse at Donnington, in the nearest 
hostelry.” 

‘‘But I tell thee, friend,” said the mercer, “it is,the very 
horse on which I was this day to carry Jane Thackham of 
Shottesbrok as far as the parish church yonder, to become 
Dame Goldthred. She hath jumped out of the shot-window of 
old Gaffer Thackham’s grange; and lo ye, yonder she stands 
at the place where she should have met the palfrey, with her 
camlet riding-cloak, and ivory-handled whip, like a picture of 
Lot’s wife. I pray you, in good terms, let me have back the 
palfrey.” 

“Grieved am I,” said Wayland, “as much for the fair 
damsel as for thee, most noble imp of muslin. But vows must 
have their course—thou wilt find the palfrey at the Angel 


1? 


KENILWORTH. 269 


yonder at Donnington. It is all I may do for thee with a safe 
conscience.” 

“To the devil with thy conscience!” said the dismayed 
mercer—‘ Wouldst thou have a bride walk to church on foot ?”’ 

“Thou mayest take her on thy crupper, Sir Goldthred,” 
answered Wayland; “it will take down thy steed’s mettle.” 

“And how if you—if you forget to leave my horse, as you 
propose ?”’ said Goldthred, not without hesitation, for his soul 
was atraid within him. 

** My pack shall be pledged for it—yonder it lies with Giles 
Gosling in his chamber with the damask’d leathern hangings, 
stuffed tull with velvet, single, double, treble-piled—rashtaffeta 
and parapa—shag, damask, and mocado, plush, and gro- 
gram ?’—— 

“Hold! hold ! ” exclaimed the mercer ; “nay, if there be, 
in truth and sincerity, but the half of these wares—but if ever 
I trust bumpkin with bonny Bayard again!” 

‘As you list for that, good Master Goldthred—and so good- 
morrow to you—and well parted,” he added, riding on cheer- 
fully with the lady, while the discountenanced mercer rode 
back much slower than he came, pondering what excuse he 
should make to the disappointed bride, who stood waiting for 
gallant groom in the midst of the king’s highway. 

“ Methought,” said the lady, as they rode on, “‘ yonder fool 
stared at me as if he had some remembrance of me; yet I kept 
my muffler as high as I might.” 

“If I thought so,” said Wayland, “I would ride back, and 
cut him over the pate—there would be no fear of harming his 
brains, for he never had so much as would make pap to a suck- 
ing gosling. We must now push on, however, and at Don- 
nington we will leave the oaf’s horse, that he may have no 
further temptation to pursue us, and endeavor to assume such 
a change of shape as may baffle his pursuit, if he should perse- 
vere in it.” 

The traveler reached Donnington without further alarm, 
where it became matter of necessity that the Countess should 
enjoy two or three hours’ repose, during which Wayland dis- 
posed himself, with equal address and alacrity, to carry through 
those measures on which the safety of their future journey 
seemed to depend. 

Exchanging his pedler’s gaberdine for a smock-frock, he 
carried the palfrey of Goldthred to the Angel Inn, which was 
at the other end of the village from that where our travelers had 
taken up their quarters. In the progress of the morning, as he 
traveled about his other business, he saw the steed brought 


466 KENILWORTH. 


forth and delivered to the cutting mercer himself, who, at the 
head of a valorous posse of the Hue and Cry, came to rescue, 
by force of arms, what was delivered to him without any other 
ransom than the price of a huge quantity of ale, drunk out by 
his assistants, thirsty, it would seem, with their walk, and con. 
cerning the price of which Master Goldthred had a fierce dis- 
pute with the head borough, whom he had summoned to aid 
him in raising the country. | 

“ Having made this act of prudent, as well as just restitu 
tion, Wayland procured such change of apparel for the lady, as 
well as himself, as gave them both the appearance of country 
people of the better class; it being further resolved, that in 
order to attract the less observation, she should pass upon the 
road for the sister of her guide. A good, but not a gay horse, fit 
to keep pace with his own, and gentle enough for a lady’s use, 
completed the preparations for the journey; for making which, 
and for other expenses, he had been furnished with sufficient 
funds by Tressilian. And thus, about noon, after the Countess 
had been refreshed by the sound repose of several hours, they 
resumed their journey, with the purpose of making the best of 
their way to Kenilworth, by Coventry and Warwick. They 
were not, however, destined to travel far, without meeting some 
cause of apprehension. 

“Tt is necessary to premise, that the landlord of the inn had 
informed them that a jovial party, intended, as he undezstood, 
to present some of the masks or mummeries, which made a 
part of the entertainment with which the Queen was usually 
welcomed on the royal Progresses, had left the village of Don- 
nington an hour or two before them, in order to proceed to | 
Kenilworth. Now it bad occurred to Wayland, that, by at- 
taching themselves in some sort to this group, as soon as they 
should overtake them on the road, they would be less likely to 
attract notice, than if they continued to travel entirely by 
themselves. He communicated his idea to the Countess, who, 
only anxious to arrive at Kenilworth without interruption, left 
him free to choose the manner in which this was to be accom- 
plished. They pressed forward their horses, therefore, with the 
purpose of overtaking the party of intended revelers, and 
making the journey in their company ; and had just seen the 
little party, consisting partly of riders, partly of people on foot, 
crossing the summit of a gentle hill, at about half-a-mile’s 
distance, and disappearing on the other side, when Wayland, 
who maintained the most circumspect cbservation of all that 
met his eye in every direction, was aware that a rider was 
coming up behind them on a horse of uncommon action, accom. 


KENILWORTH. 261 


panied by a serving-man, whose utmost efforts were unable to 
keep up with his master’s trotting hackney, and who, therefore, 
was fain to follow him at a hand gallop. Wayland looked anx- 
iously back at these horsemen, became considerably disturbed 
in his manner, looked back again, and became pale, as he said 
to the lady—‘“ That is Richard Varney’s trotting gelding—I 
would know him among a thousand nags—this is a worse 
business than meeting the mercer.” 

“Draw your sword,” answered the lady, “and pierce my 
bosom with it, rather than I should fall into his hands!” 

“T would rather by a thousand times,” answered Wayland, 
“pass it through his body, or even my own. But, to say 
truth, fighting is not my best point, though I can look on cold 
iron, like another, when needs must be. And indeed, as for my 
sword—(put on, I pray you), it is a poor provant rapier, and 
I warrant you he has a special Toledo. Hehas a serving-man, 
too, and I think it is the drunken ruffian Lambourne, upon the 
horse on which men say—(I pray you heartily to put on)—he 
did the great robbery of the west country grazier. It is not 
that I fear either Varney or Lambourne in a good cause—(your 
palfrey will go yet faster if you urge him)—But yet—(nay, I 
pray you let him not break off into the gallop, lest they should 
see we fear them, and give chase—keep him only at the full 
trot)—But yet, though I fear them not, I would we were well 
rid of them, and that rather by policy than by violence. Could 
we once reach the party before us, we may herd among them, 
and pass unobserved, unless Varney be really come in express 
pursuit of us, and then, happy man be his dole!” 

While he thus spoke, he alternately urged and restrained 
his horse, desirous to maintain the fleetest pace that was con- 
sistent with the idea of an ordinary journey on the road, but 
to avoid such rapidity of movement as might give rise to 
suspicion that they were flying. 

At such a pace they ascended the gentle hill we have men- 
tioned, and, looking from the top had the pleasure to see that 
the party which had left Donnington before them, were in the 
little valley or bottom on the other side, where the road was 
traversed by arivulet, beside which was a cottage or two. In 
this place they seemed to have made a pause, which gave Way- 
land the hope of joining them, and becoming a part of their 
company, ere Varney should overtake them. He was the more 
anxious, aS his-companion, though she made no complaints 
and expressed no fear, began to look so deadly pale, that he 
was afraid she might drop from her horse. Notwithstanding 
this symptom of decaying strength she pushed on her palfrey so 


262 KENILWORTH. 


briskly, that they joined the party in the bottom of the valley, 
ere Varney appeared on the top of the gentle eminence which 
they descended. 

They found the company to which they meant to associate 
themselves, in great disorder. ‘The women with disheveled 
locks, and looks of great importance, ran in and out of one of 
the cottages, and the men stood around holding the horses, and 
looking silly enough, as is usual in cases where their assistance 
is not wanted. 

Wayland and his charge paused, as if out of curiosity, and 
then gradually, without making any inquiries, or being asked 
any questions, they mingled with the group, as if they had 
always made part of it. 

They had not stood there above five minutes, anxiously 
keeping as much to the side of the road as possible, so as to 
place the other travelers betwixt them and Varney, when Lord 
Leicester’s master of the horse, followed by Lambourne, came 
riding fiercely down the hill, their horses’ flanks and the rowels 
of their spurs showing bloody tokens of the rate at which they 
traveled. ‘The appearance of the stationary group around the 
cottages, wearing their buckram suits in order to protect their 
masking dresses, having their light cart for transporting their 
scenery, and carrying various fantastic properties in their hands 
for the more easy conveyance, let the riders at once into the 
character and purpose of the company. 

“You are revelers,” said Varney, “designing for Kenil- 
worth.” 

“ Recte quidem, Domine spectatissime,’ answered one of the 
patty. 

“And why the devil stand you here,” said Varney, ‘when 
your utmost despatch will but bring you to Kenilworth in 
time? ‘The Queen dines at Warwick to-morrow, and you loiter 
here, ye knaves.” 

“In very truth, sir,’”’ said a little diminutive urchin, wearing 
a vizard with a couple of spouting horns of an elegant scarlet 
hue, having moreover a black serge jerkin drawn close to his 
body by lacing, garnished with red stockings, and shoes so 
shaped as to resemble cloven feet,—“ in very truth, sir, and 
you are inthe right on’t.—It is my father the Devil, who, being 
taken in labor, has delayed our present purpose, by increasing 
our company with an imp too many.” 

“The devil he has!” answered Varney, whose laugh, how- 
ever, never exceeded a sarcastic smile. 

“It is even as the juvenal hath said,” added the masker 


KENILWORTH. 263 


who spoke first; ‘our major devil, for this is but our minor one, 
is even now at Lucina fer opem, within that very tugurium.” 

_ “ By Saint George, or rather by the Dragon, who may be a 
kinsman of the fiend in the straw, a most comical chance !”’ 
said Varney. ‘‘ How sayest thou, Lambourne, wilt thou stand 
godfather for the nonce ?—if the devil were to choose a gossip, 
I know no one more fit for the office.” 

“Saving always when my betters are in presence,” said Lam- 
bourne, with the civil impudence of a servant who knows his 
services to be so indispensable, that his jest will be permitted 
to pass muster. 

** And what is the name of this devil or devil’s dam, who 
has timed her turns so strangely?” said Varney. ‘We can ill 
afford to spare any of our actors.” 

“* Gaudet nomine Sibylle,’” said the first speaker, ‘she is 
called Sibyl Laneham, wife of Master Richard Laneham ” 

“Clerk to the Council-Chamber door,” said Varney; “ why, 
she is inexcusable, having had experience how to have ordered 
her matters better. But who were those, a man and a woman, 
I think, who rode so hastily up the hill before me even now? 
—do they belong to your company ?”’ 

Wayland was about to hazard a reply to this alarming in- 
quiry, when the little diablotin again thrust in his oar. 

‘So please you,” he said, coming close up to Varney, and 
speaking so as not to be overheard by his companions, “the 
man was our devil major, who has tricks enough to supply the 
lack of a hundred such as Dame Laneham; and the woman— 
if you please, is the sage person whose assistance is most par- 
ticularly necessary to our distressed comrade.” 

“Oh, what, you have got the wise woman, then?” said 
Varney. ‘Why, truly, she rode like one bound to a place 
where she was needed—And you have a spare limb of Satan, 
besides, to supply the place of Mistress Laneham !” 

“Ay, sit,” said the boy, “they are not so scarce in this 
world as your honor’s virtuous eminence would suppose.—This 
master-fiend shall spit a few flashes of fire, and eruct a volume 
or two of smoke on the spot, if it will do you pleasure—you 
would think he had Aitna in his abdomen. 

“T lack time just now, most hopeful imp of darkness, to 
witness his performance,” said Varney ; ‘‘ but here is something 
for you all to drink the lucky hour—and so, as the play says, 
‘God be with your labor!’” 

Thus speaking, he struck his horse with the spurs, and rode 
on his way. 

Lambourne tarried a moment or two behind his master, and 


264 KENILWORTH. 


rummaged his pouch for a piece of silver, which he bestowed 
on the communicative imp, as he said, for his encouragement 
on his path to the infernal regions, some sparks of whose fire, 
he said, he could discover flashing from him already. \ Then 
having received the boy’s thanks for his generosity, he also 
spurred his horse, and rode after his master as fast as the fire 
flashes from flint, 

‘“‘ And now,”’ said the wily imp, sideling close up to Wayland’s 
horse, and cutting a gambol in the air, which seemed to vindi- 
cate his title to relationship with the prince of that element, 
‘7 have told them who you are, do you in return tell me who 
fam?” 

‘“‘ Rither Flibbertigibbet,” answered Wayland Smith, “ or else 
an imp of the devil in good earnest.” 

“Thou hast hit it,” answered Dickie Sludge ; “I am thine 
own Flibbertigibbet, man; and I have broken forth of bounds, 
along with my learned preceptor, as I told thee I would do, 
whether he would or not.—But what lady hast thou got with 
thee? I saw thou wert at fault the first question was asked, 
and so I drew up for thy assistance. But I must know all who 
she is, dear Wayland.” 

“Thou shalt know fifty finer things, my dear ingle,” said 
Wayland; ‘but a truce to thine inquiries just now; and since 
you are bound for Kenilworth, thither will I too, even for the 
love of thy sweet face and waggish company.” 

‘Thou shouldst have said my waggish face and sweet com- 
pany,’ said Dickie ; ‘‘ but how wilt thou travel with us—I mean 
in what character?” 

““F’en in that thou hast assigned me, to be sure—as a 
juggler; thou know’st I am used to the craft,” answered Way- 
land. 

‘“‘ Ay, but the lady?” answered Flibbertigibbet ; *‘ credit me, 
I think she zs one, and thou art in a sea of troubles about her 
at this moment, as I can perceive by thy fidgeting.” 

‘OQ, she, man?—she is a poor sister of mine,” said Wayland 
—‘she can sing and play o’ the lute, would win the fish out o’ 
the stream.”’ 

‘Let me hear her instantly,” said the boy ; “‘ I love the lute 
rarely; I love it of all things, though I never heard it.” 

‘Then how canst thou love it, Flibbertigibbet ?” said Way- 
and. 

‘““As knights love ladies in old tales,” answered Dickie— 
“on hearsay.” 

“Then love it on hearsay a little longer, till my sister is 
recovered from the fatigue of her journey,” said Wayland ;~ 


KENILWORTH. 265 


muttering afterward betwixt his teeth, “The devil take the 
imp’s curiosity!—I must keep fair weather with him, or we 
shall fare the worse.” 

He then proceeded to state to Master Holiday his own talents 
as a juggler, with those of his sister asa musician. Some proof 
of his Gexterity was demanded, which he gave in such a style 
of excellence, that, delighted at obtaining such an accession to 
their party, they readily acquiesced in the apology which he 
offered when a display of his sister’s talents was required. The 
new-comers were invited to partake of the refreshments with 
which the party were provided ; and it was with some difficulty 
that Wayland Smith obtained an opportunity of being apart 
with his supposed sister during the meal, of which interval he 
availed himself to entreat her to forget for the present both her 
rank and her sorrows, and condescend, as the most probable 
chance of remaining concealed, to mix in the society of those 
with whom she was to travel. 

The Countess allowed the necessity of the case, and when 
they resumed their journey, endeavored to comply with her 
guide’s advice by addressing herself to a female near her, and 
expressing her concern for the woman whom they were thus 
obliged to leave behind them. 

“Oh, she is well attended, madam,” replied the dame whom 
she addressed, who, from her jolly and laughter-loving de- 
meanor, might have been the very emblem of the Wife of Bath ; 
“and my gossip Laneham thinks as little of these matters as 
any one, By the ninth day, an the revels lastso long, we shall 
have her with us at Kenilworth, even if she should travel with 
her bantling on her back.” 

There was something in this speech which took away all 
desire on the Countess of Leicester’s part to continue the con- 
versation; but having broken the charm by speaking to her 
fellow-traveler first, the good dame, who was to play Rare 
Gillian of Croydon, in one of the interludes, took care that 
silence did not again settle on the journey, but entertained her 
mute companion with a thousand anecdotes of revels, from the 
days of King Harry downward, with the reception given them 
by the great folk, and all the names of those who played the 
principal characters ; but ever concluding with “ they would be 
nothing to the princely pleasures of Kenilworth.” 

“¢ And when shall we reach Kenilworth?” said the Countess, 
with an agitation which she in vain attempted to conceal. 

‘We that have horses may, with late riding, get to Warwick 
to-night, and Kenilworth may be distant some four or five 
miles,—but then we must wait till the foot-people come up; 


266 KENILWORTH. 


although it is like my good'Lord of Leicester will have horses or 
light carriages to meet them, and bring them up without being 
travel-toiled, which last is no good preparation, as you may 
suppose, for dancing before your betters—And yet, Lord help 
me, I have seen the day I would have tramped five leagues of 
lea-land, and turned on my toe the whole evening after, as a 
juggler spins a pewter platter on the point of a needle. But 
age has clawed me somewhat in his clutch, as the song says; 
though, if I like the tune and like my partner, I’ll dance the 
heys yet with any merry lass in Warwickshire, that writes that 
unhappy figure four with a round O after it.” 

If the Countess was overwhelmed with the garrulity of this 
good dame, Wayland Smith, on his part, had enough to do to 
sustain and parry the constant attacks made upon him by the 
indefatigable curiosity of his old acquaintance Richard Sludge. 
Nature had given that arch youngster a prying cast of disposi- 
tion, which matched admirably with his sharp wit; the former 
inducing him to plant himself as a spy on other people’s affairs, 
and the latter quality leading him perpetually to interfere, after 
he had made himself master of that which concerned him not. 
He spent the live-long day in attempting to peer under the 
Countess’s muffler, and apparently what he could there discern 
greatly sharpened his curiosity. 

“That sister of thine, Wayland,” he said, “has a fair neck 
to have been born in a smithy, and a pretty taper hand to have 
been used for twirling a spindle—faith, I’ll believe in your 
relationship when the crow’s egg is hatched into a cygnet.” 

“Go to,” said Wayland, “ thou art a prating boy, and should 
be breeched for thine assurance. ” 

“Well,” said the imp, drawing off, “all I say is,—remembet 
you have kept a secret from me, and if I give thee not a Row- 
land for thine Oliver, my name is not Dickon Sludge!” 

This threat, and the distance at which Hobgoblin kept from 
him for the rest of the way, alarmed Wayland very much, and 
he suggested to his pretended sister, that, on pretext of weari- 
ness, she should express a desire to stop two or three miles short 
of the fair town of Warwick, promising to rejoin the troop in 
the morning. A small village inn afforded them a resting- 
place; and it was with secret pleasure that Wayland saw the 
whole party, including Dickon, pass on, after a courteous fare- 
well, and leave them behind. 

“To-morrow, madam,” he said to his charge, ‘‘ we will, with 
your leave, again start early, and reach Kenilworth before the 
rout which are to assemble there.” 

The Countess gave assent to the proposal of her faithful 


KENILWORTH. 267 


guide ; but, somewhat to his surprise, said nothing further on 
the subject, which left Wayland under the disagreeable uncer- 
tainty whether or no she had formed any plan for her own 
future proceedings, as he knew her situation demanded circum- 
spection, although he was but imperfectly acquainted with all 
its peculiarities. Concluding, however, that she must have 
friends within the castle, whose advice and assistance she could 
safely trust, he supposed his task would be best accomplished 
by conducting her thither in safety, agreeably to her repeated 
commands. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH. 


Hark, the bells summon, and the bugle calls, 
But she the fairest answers not—the tide 
Of nobles and of ladies throngs the halls, 
But she the loveliest must in secret hide. 
What eyes were thine, proud Prince, which in thee 
Of yon gay meteors lost that better sense, 
That o’er the glow-worm doth the star esteem, 
And merit’s modest blush o’er courtly insolence ? 
THE GLASS SLIPPER. 


THE unfortunate Countess of Leicester had, from her infancy 
upward, been treated by those around her with indulgence as 
unbounded as injudicious. The natural sweetness of her disposi- 
tion had saved her from becoming insolent and ill-humored ; 
but the caprice which preferred the handsome and insinuating 
Leicester before Tressilian, of whose high honor and unalterable 
affection she herself entertained so firm an opinion—that fatal 
error, which ruined the happiness of her life, had its origin in 
the mistaken kindness that had spared her childhood the pain- 
ful but most necessary lesson of submission and self-command. 
From the same indulgence, it followed that she had only been 
accustomed to form and to express her wishes, leaving to 
others the task of fulfilling them; and thus, at the most mo- 
mentous period of her life, she was alike destitute of presence 
of mind and of ability to form for herself any reasonable or 
prudent plan of conduct. 

These difficulties pressed on the unfortunate lady with over- 
whelming force on the morning which seemed to be the crisis 
of herfate. Overlooking every intermediate consideration, she 


365 a0" KENILWORTH. 


had only desired to be at Kenilworth, and to approach her 
husband’s presence ; and now, when she was in the vicinity of 
both, a thousand considerations arose at once upon her mind, 
startling her with accumulated doubts and dangers, some real, 
some imaginary, and all exalted and exaggerated by a situation 
alike helpless and destitute of aid and counsel. 

A sleepless night rendered her so weak in the morning, that 
she was altogether unable to attend Wayland’s early summons. 
The trusty guide became extremely distressed on the lady’s 
account, and somewhat alarmed on his own, and was on the 
point of going alone to Kenilworth, in the hope of discovering 
Tressilian, and intimating to him the lady’s approach, when 
about nine in the morning he was summoned to attend her. 
He found her dressed, and ready for resuming her journey, but 
with a paleness of countenance which alarmed him for her 
health. She intimated her desire that the horses might be got 
instantly ready, and resisted with impatience her guide’s 
request, that she would take some refreshment before setting 
forward. ‘I have had,’ she said, “a cup of water—the 
wretch who is dragged to execution needs no stronger cordial, 
and that may serve me which suffices for him—do as I com- 
mand you.” Wayland Smith still hesitated. ‘ What would 
you have ?”’ said she—“ Have I not spoken plainly?” 

“Yes, madam,” answered Wayland; ‘but may I ask what 
is your further purpose ?—I only wish to know, that I may 
guide myself by your wishes. The whole country is afloat, and 
streaming toward the Castle of Kenilworth. It will be difficult 
traveling thither even if we had the necessary passports for 
safe-conduct and free admittance—Unknown and unfriended, 
we may come by mishap.—Your ladyship will forgive my 
speaking my poor mind—Were we not better try to find out the 
maskers, and again join ourselves with them?”— The 
Countess shook her head, and her guide proceeded, “Then I 
see but one other remedy.” 

‘Speak out, then,” said the lady, not displeased, perhaps, 
that he should thus offer the advice which she was ashamed to 
ask; ‘‘I believe thee faithful—-what wouldst thou counsel?” 

“That I should warn Master Tressilian,” said Wayland, 
“that you are in this place. JI am right certain he would get 
to horse with a few of Lord Sussex’s followers, and ensure 
your personal safety.” 

‘And is it to me you advise,” said the Countess, “to put 
myself under the, protection of Sussex, the unworthy rival of 
the noble Leicester?” Then, seeing the surprise with which 
Wayland stared upon her, and afraid of having too strongly in: 


KENILWORTH. 269 


timated her interest in Leicester, she added, “‘ And for Tres: 
silian, it must not be—mention not to him, I charge you, my 
unhappy name; it would but double my misfortunes, and 
involve zm in dangers beyond the power of rescue.” She 
paused; but when she observed that Wayland continued to 
look on her with that anxious and uncertain gaze, which indi- 
cated a doubt whether her brain was settled, she assumed an 
air of composure, and added, ‘“ Do thou but guide me to Kenil- 
worth Castle, good fellow, and thy task is ended, since I will 
then judge what further is to be done. Thou hast yet been 
true to me—here is something that will make thee rich 
amends.” 

She offered the artist a ring, containing a valuable stone. 
Wayland looked at it, hesitated a moment, and then returned 
it. “ Not,” he said, “that I am above your kindness, madam, 
being but a poor fellow, who have been forced, God help me! 
to live by worse shifts than the bounty of such a person as you. 
But, as my old master the farrier used to say to his customers, 
‘No cure, no pay.’ We are not yet in Kenilworth Castle, and 
it is time enough to discharge your guide, as they say, when 
you take your boots off. J trust in God your ladyship is as 
well assured of fitting reception when you arrive, as you may 
hold yourself certain of my best endeavors to conduct you 
thither safely. I go to get the horses; meantime, let me pray 
you once more, ag your poor physician as well as guide, to take 
some sustenance.” 

“‘T will—I will,” said the lady hastily. ‘‘ Begone, begone, 
instantly !—It is in vain I assume audacity,” said she, when he 
left the room; ‘‘ even this poor groom sees through my affecta- 
tion of courage, and fathoms the very ground of my fears.” 

She then attempted to follow her guide’s advice by taking 
some food, but was compelled to desist, as the effort to swallow 
even a single morsel gave her so much uneasiness as amounted 
well-high to suffocation. A moment afterward the horse ap- 
peared at the latticed window—the lady mounted, and found 
that relief from the free air and change of place which is fre- 
quently experienced in similar circumstances. 

It chanced well for the Countess’s purpose, that Wayland 
Smith, whose previous wandering and unsettled life had made 
him acquainted with almost ail England, was intimate with all 
the by-roads, as well as direct communications, through the 
beautiful county of Warwick. For such and so great was the 
throng which floated in all directions toward Kenilworth, to 
see the entry of Elizabeth into that splendid mansion of her 
prime favorite, that the principal roads were actually blocked 


270 KENILWORTH: 


up and interrupted, and it was only by circuitous by-paths that 
the travelers could proceed on their journey. 

~The Queen’s purveyors had been abroad, sweeping the 
farms and villages of those articles usually exacted during a 
royal Progress, “and for which the owners were afterwards to 
obtain a tardy payment from the Board of Green Cloth. The 
Earl of Leicester’s household officers had been scouring the 
country for the same purpose; and many of his friends and 
allies, both near and remote, took this opportunity of ingratiat: 
ing themselves, by sending large quantities of provisions and 
delicacies of all kinds, with game in huge numbers, and whole 
tuns of the best Jiquors, foreign and domestic. Thus the high 
roads were filled with droves of bullocks, sheep, calves, and 
hogs, and choked with loaded wains, whose axle-trees cracked 
under their burdens of wine-casks and hogsheads of ale, and huge 
hampers of grocery goods, and slaughtered game, and saited 
provisions, and sacks of flour. Perpetual stoppages took place 
as these wains became entangled ; and their rude drivers, 
swearing and brawling till their wild passions were fully raised, 
began to debate precedence with their wagon-whips and quar- 
ter-staves, which occasional riots were usually quieted by a pur- 
veyor, deputy-marshal’s man, or some other person in authority, 
breaking the heads of both parties. 

Here were, besides, players and mummers, jugglers and 
showmen, of every description, traversing in joyous bands the 
paths which led to the Palace of Princely Pleasure ; for so the 
traveling minstrels had termed Kenilworth in the songs which 
already had come forth in anticipation of the revels which were 
there expected. In the midst of this motley show, mendicants 
were exhibiting their real or pretended miseries, forming a 
strange, though common, contrast betwixt the vanities and the 
sorrows of human existence. All these floated along with the 
immense tide of population, whom mere curiosity had drawn 
together; and where the mechanic, in his leather apron, elbowed 
the dink and dainty dame, his city mistress; where clowns, 
with hobnailed shoes, were treading on the kibes of substantial 
burghers and gentlemen of worship; and where Joan of the 
dairy, with robust pace, and red sturdy arms, rowed her way 
onward, amongst those prim and pretty moppets, whose sires 
were knights and squires. 

The throng and confusion was, however, of a gay and cheet- 
ful character. All came forth to see and to enjoy, and all 
laughed at the trifling inconveniences which at another tine 
might have chafed their temper. Excepting the occasional 
brawls which we have mentioned among that irritable race the 


KENILWORTH. 271 


carmen, the mingled sounds which rose from the multitude 
were those of light-hearted mirth, and tiptoe jollity. The musi- 
cians preluded on their instruments—the ministrels hummed 
their songs—the licensed jester whooped betwixt mirth and 
madness, as he brandished his bauble—the morrice-dancers 
jangled their bells—the rustics halloo’d and whistled—men 
laughed loud, and maidens giggled shrill; while many a broad 
jest flew like a shuttlecock from one party, to be caught in the 
air andreturned from the opposite side of the road by another, 
at which it was aimed.* 

No infliction can be so distressing to a mind absorbed in 
melancholy, as being plunged into a scene of mirth and revelry, 
forming an accompaniment so dissonant from its own feelings. 
Yet, in the case of the Countess of Leicester, the noise and 
tumult of this giddy scene distracted her thoughts, and rendered 
her this sad service, that it became impossible for her to brood 
on her own misery, or to form terrible anticipations of her ap- 
proaching fate. She traveled on like one in a dream, following 
implicitly the guidance of Wayland, who, with great address, 
now threaded his way through the general throng of passengers, 
now stood still until a favorable opportunity occurred of again 
moving forward, and frequently turning altogether out of the 
direct road, following some circuitous by-path, which brought 
them into the highway again, after having given them the 
opportunity of traversing a considerable way with greater ease 
and rapidity. 

It was thus he avoided Warwick, within whose Castle (that 
fairest monument of ancient and chivalrous splendor which 
yet remains uninjured by time) Elizabeth had passed the 
previous night, and where she was to tarry until past noon, at 
that time the general hour of dinner throughout England, after 
which repast she was to proceed to Kenilworth. Inthe mean- 
while each passing group had something to say in the Sov- 
ereign’s praise, though not absolutely without the usual mixture 
of satire which qualifies more or less our estimate of our neigh- 
bors, especially if they chance to be also our betters. 

“Heard you,” said one, “how graciously she spoke to 
Master Bailiff and the Recorder, and to good Master Griffin 
the preacher, as they kneeled down at her coach-window ?” 

“Ay, and how she said to little Aglionby, ‘ Master Recorder, 


* [Dr. Beattie, in his Castles of England, says, “It is probably the ro- 
mance of ‘ Kenilworth’ has brought within the last forty years more pil- 
grims to this town and neighborhood than ever resorted to its ancient shrine 
of the Virgin, more knights and dames than ever figured in its tilts and 
tournaments.’’] 


272 KENILWORTH. 


men would have persuaded me that you were afraid of me, but 
truly I think, so well did you reckon up to me the virtues of 
a sovereign, that I have more reason to be afraid of you’—And 
then with what grace she took the fair-wrought purse with the 
twenty gold sovereigns, seeming as though she would not will- 
ingly handle it, and yet taking it withal.” 

““ Ay, ay,” said another, “her fingers closed on it pretty 
willingly methought, when all was done ; and methought, too, 
she weighed them for a second in her hand, as she would say, 
I hope they be avoirdupois.” 

‘“¢ She needed not, neighbor,” said a third; “ it is only when 
the corporation pay the accounts of a poor handicraft like me, 
that they put him off with clipt coin.—Well, there is a God 
above all—Little Master Recorder, since that is the word, will 
be greater now than ever.” 

“ Come, good neighbor,” said the first speaker, “ be not 
envious—Sshe is a good Queen, and a generous—She gave the 
purse to the Earl of Leicester.” 

“* T envious ?—beshrew thy heart for the word!” replied 
the handicraft—‘t But she will give all to the Earl of Leicester 
anon, methinks.” 3 

“ You are turning ill, lady,’ said Wayland Smith to the 
Countess of Leicester, and proposed that she should draw off 
from the road, and halt till she recovered. But, subduing her 
feelings at this, and different speeches to the same purpose 
which caught her ear as they passed on, she insisted that her 
guide should proceed to Kenilworth with all the haste which 
the numerous impediments of their journey permitted. Mean- 
while, Wayland’s anxiety at her repeated fits of indisposition, 
and her obvious distraction of mind, was hourly increasing, and 
he became extremely desirous, that, according to her reiterated 
requests, she should be safely introduced into the Castle, there, 
he doubted not, she was secure of a kind reception, though she 
seemed unwilling to reveal on whom she reposed her hopes. 

“An I were once rid of this peril,” thought he, “ and if any 
man shall find me playing squire of the body to a damosel- 
errant, he shall have leave to beat my brains out with my own 
sledge- hammer !” 

Atlength the princely Castle appeared, upon improving 
which, and the domains around, the Earl of Leicester had, it 
is said, expended sixty thousand pounds sterling, a sum equal 
to half a million of our present money. 

The outer wall of this splendid and gigantic structure en 
closed seven acres, a part of which was occupied by extensive 
stables, and by a pleasure-garden, with its trim arbors and 


KENILWORTH. 243 


parterres, and the rest formed the large base-court, or outer 
yard, of the noble Castle. The lordly structure itself, which 
rose near the centre of this spacious enclosure, was composed 
of a huge pile of magnificent castellated buildings, apparently 
of different ages, surrounding an inner court, and bearing in 
the names attached to each portion of the magnificent mass, 
and in the armorial bearings which were there blazoned, the 
emblems of mighty chiefs who had long passed away, and 
whose history, could Ambition have lent ear to it, might have 
read alesson to the haughty favorite, who had now acquired 
and was augmenting the fairdomain. A large and massive 
Keep, which formed the citadel of the Castle, was of uncertain 
though great antiquity. It bore the name of Cesar, perhaps 
from its resemblance to that in the Tower of London so called. 
Some antiquaries ascribe its foundation to the time of Kenelph, 
from whom the Castle had its name, a Saxon King of Mercia, 
and others to an early era after the Norman Conquest. On 
the exterior walls frowned the scutcheon of the Clintons, by 
whom they were founded in the reign of Henry I., and of the 
yet more redoubted Simon de Montfort, by whom, during the 
Barons’ wars, Kenilworth was long held out against Henry III. 
Here Mortimer, Earl of March, famous alike for his rise and 
his fall, had once gayly reveled in Kenilworth, while his de- 
throned sovereign, Edward II., languished in its dungeons. 
Old John of Gaunt, “time-honored Lancaster,” had widely 
extended the Castle, erecting that noble and massive pile which 
yet bears the name of Lancaster’s Buildings; and Leicester 
himself had outdone the former possessors, princely and power- 
ful as they were, by erecting another immense structure, which 
now lies crushed under its own ruins, the monument of its 
owner’s ambition. ‘The external wall of this royal Castle was, 
on the south and west sides, adorned and cefended by a lake, 
partly artificial, across which Leicester had constructed a 
stately bridge, that Elizabeth might enter the Castle by a path 
hitherto untrodden, instead of the usual entrance to the north- 
ward, over which he had erected a gate-house, or barbican, 
which still exists, and is equal in extent, and superior in archi- 
tecture, to the baronial castle of many a northern chief. 
Beyond the lake an extensive chase, full of red-deer, fallow- 
deer, roes, and every species of game, and abounding with lofty 
trees, from amongst which the extended front and massive 
towers of the castle were seen to rise in maje. ty and beauty. 
We cannot but add, that of this lordly palace, where princes 
feasted and heroes fought, now in the bloody earnest of storm 
and seige, and now in the games of chivalry, where beauty deaif 


274 KENILWORTH. 


the prize which valor won, all is now desolate. The bed of 
the lake is but a rushy swamp; and the massive ruins of the 
Castle only serve to show what their splendor once was, and to 
impress on the musing visitor the transitory value of human pos- 
sessions, and the happiness of those who enjoy a humble lot in 
virtuous contentment. 

It was with far different feelings that the unfortunatr 
Countess of Leicester viewed those gray and massive towers 
when she first beheld them rise above the embowering and 
richly shaded woods, over which they seem to preside. She, 
the undoubted wife of the great Earl, of Elizabeth’s minion, 
and England’s mighty favorite, was approaching the presence 
of her husband, and that husband’s sovereign, under the pro- 
tection, rather than the guidance, of a poor juggler; and though 
unquestioned Mistress of that proud Castle, whose lightest word 
ought to have had force sufficient to make its gates leap from 
their massive hinges to receive her, yet she could not conceal 
from herself the difficulty and peril which she must experience 
in gaining admission into her own halls. 

The risk and difficulty, indeed, seemed to increase every mo- 
ment, and at length threatened altogether to put a stop to her 
further progress, at the great gate leading toa broad and fair 
road, which, traversing the breadth of the chase for the space of 
two miles, and commanding several most beautiful views of the 
Castle and lake, terminated at the newly-constructed bridge, 
to which it was an appendage, and which was destined to 
form the Queen’s approach to the Castle on that memorable 
occasion. 

Here the Countess and Wayland found the gate at the end 
of the avenue, which opened on the Warwick road, guarded by 
a body of the ‘Queen’s mounted yeomen of the ouard, armed in 
corslets richly carved and gilded, and wearing morions instead 
of bonnets, having their carabines resting with the butt-end on 
their thighs. These guards, distinguished for strength and 
stature, who did duty wherever the Queen went in person, were 
here stationed under the direction of a pursuivant, graced with 
the Bear and Ragged Staff on his arm, as belonging to the Earl 
of Leicester, and. peremptorily refused all admittance, except- 
ing to such as were guests invited to the festival, or persons 
who were to perform some part in the mirthful exhibitions 
which were proposed, 

The press was of consequence great around the entrance, and 
persons of all kinds presented every sort of plea for admittance , 
to which the guards turned an inexorable ear, pleading, in 
return to fair words, and even to fair offers, the strictness of - 


KENILWORTH. 276 


their orders, founded on the Queen’s well-known dislike to the 
rude pressing of a multitude. With those whom such reasons 
did not serve, they dealt more rudely, repelling them without 
ceremony by the pressure of their powerful barbed horses, and 
good round blows from the stock of their carabines. These 
last manceuvres produced undulations amongst the crowd, 
which rendered Wayland much afraid that he might perforce 
be separated from his charge in the throng. Neither did he 
know what excuse to make in order to obtain admittance, and 
he was debating the matter in his head with great uncertainty, 
when the Earl’s pursuivant having cast an eye upon him, ex- 
claimed, to his no small surprise, ‘‘ Yeomen, make room for 
the fellow in the orange-tawny cloak—Come forward, Sir Cox- 
comb, and make haste. What, in the fiend’s name, has kept 
you waiting? Come forward with your bale. of woman’s 
gear.” | 

While the pursuivant gave Wayland this. pressing yet un- 
courteous invitation, which, for a minute or two, he could not 
imagine was applied to him, the yeomen speedily made a free 
passage for him, while, only cautioning his companion to keep 
the muffler close around her face, he entered the gate leading 
her palfrey, but with such a drooping crest, and such a look 
of conscious fear and anxiety, that the crowd, not greatly 
pleased at any rate with the preference bestowed upon them, 
accompanied their admission with hooting, and a loud laugh 
of derision. 

Admitted thus within the chase, though with no very flat- 
tering notice or distinction, Wayland and his charge rode 
forward, musing what difficulties it would be next their lot to 
encounter, through the broad avenue, which was sentineled on 
either side by a long line of retainers, armed with swords and 
partisans, richly dressed in the Earl of Leicester’s liveries, and 
bearing his cognizance of the Bear and Ragged Staff, each 
placed within three paces of each other, so as to line the whole 
road from the entrance into the park to the bridge. And 
indeed, when the lady obtained the first commanding view of 
the castle, with its stately towers rising from within a long 
sweeping line of outward walls, ornamented with battlements, 
and turrets, and platforms, at every point of defence, with 
many a banner streaming from its walls, and such a bustle of 
gay crests, and waving plumes, disposed on the terraces and 
battlements, and all the gay and gorgeous scene, her heart, 
unaccustomed to such splendor, sank as if it died within her, 
and for a moment she asked herself, what she had offered up 
to Leicester to deserve to become the partner of this princely 


2 76 KENILWORTH. 


splendor. But her pride and generous spirit resisted the 
whisper which bade her despair. 

“‘T have given him,” she said, “ all that woman has to give. 
Name and fame, heart and hand, have I given the lord of all 
this magnificence, at the altar, and England’s Queen could give 
him no more. He is my husband—I am his wife—whom God 
hath joined, man cannot sunder. I will be bold in claiming 
my right; even the bolder, that I come thus unexpected, and 
thus forlorn. I know my noble Dudley well! He will be 
something impatient at my disobeying him, but Amy will weep, 
and Dudley will forgive her.” 

These meditations were interrupted by a cry of surprise 
from her guide Wayland, who suddenly felt himself grasped 
firmly round the body by a pair of long thin black arms, be- 
longing to some one who had dropped himself out of an oak- 
tree upon the croup of his horse, amidst the shouts of laughter 
which burst from the sentinels. 

“This must be the devil, or Flibbertigibbet again!” said 
Wayland, after a vain struggle to disengage himself, and un- 
horse the urchin who clung to him; “ Do Kenilworth oaks 
bear such acorns?” 

“In sooth do they, Master Wayland,” said his unexpected 
adjunct, “and many others, too hard for you to crack, for as 
old as you are, without my teaching you. How would you 
have passed the pursuivant at the upper gate yonder, had not 
I warned him our principal juggler was to follow us? and 
here have I waited for you, having clambered up into the tree 
from the top of the wain, and I suppose they are all mad for 
want of me by this time.” 

“Nay, then, thou art.a limb of the devil in good earnest,” 
said Wayland. “I give thee way, good imp, and will walk by 
thy counsel; only, as thou art powerful, be merciful.” 

As he spoke, they approached a strong tower, at the south 
extremity of the long bridge we have mentioned, which served 
to protect the outer gateway of the Castle of Kenilworth. 

Under such disastrous circumstances, and in such singular 
company, did the unfortunate Countess of Leicester approach, 
for the first time, the magnificent abode of her almost princely 
husband.* 

* Note H. Amy Robsart at Kenilworth. 


KENILWORTH. 27 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH. 


Snug—Have you the lion’s part written? pray, if it be, give it to me, for 
I am slow of study. 
Quince.—You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring. 
MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’s DREAM. 


WHEN the Countess of Leicester arrived at the outer gate of 
the Castle of Kenilworth, she found the tower, beneath which 
its ample portal arch opened, guarded in a singular manner. 
Upon the battlements were placed gigantic warders, with clubs, 
battle-axes, and other implements of ancient warfare, designed 
to represent the soldiers of King Arthur; those primitive 
Britons, by whom, according to romantic tradition, the Castle 
had been first tenanted, though history carried back its antiquity 
only to the times of the Heptarchy. Some of these tremendous 
figures were real men, dressed up with vizards and buskins ; 
others were mere pageants composed of pasteboard and buck- 
ram, which, viewed from beneath, and mingled with those that 
were real, formed a sufficiently striking representation of what 
_ was intended. But the gigantic porter who waited at the gate 
beneath, and actually discharged the duties of warder, owed 
none of his terrors to fictitious means. He was a man whose 
huge stature, thews, sinews, and bulk in proportion, would 
have enabled him to enact Colbrand, Ascapart, or any other 
giant of romance, without raising himself nearer to heaven even. 
by the aititude of a chopin.* The legs and knees of this son 
of Anak were bare, as were his arms from a span below the 
shoulder; but his feet were defended with sandals, fastened 
with cross straps of scarlet leather, studded with brazen knobs. 
A close jerkin of scariet velvet, looped with gold, and with short 
breeches of the same, covered his body and part of his limbs; 
and he wore on his shoulders, instead of a cloak, the skin of a 
black bear. The head of this formidable person was uncovered, 
except by his shaggy black hair, which descended on either 


* [The old traveler Coryat, in his amusing work called Crudties, 1611, 
says the chopin “ is a thing so common in Venice, that no woman whatso- 
ever goeth without it either in her house or abroad; a thing made of wood, 
and covered with leather of sundry colors, some with white, some redde, 
some yellow. It is called a Chapiney, which they weare under their shoes. 
There are many of these Chapineys of a great height, even halfa yard 
high, which maketh many of their women that are very short seeme much 
taller than the tallest woman we have in England.”]} 


278 KENILWORTH. 


side around features of that huge, lumpish, and heavy cast, 
which are often annexed to men of very uncommon size, and 
which, notwithstanding some distinguished exceptions, have 
created a general prejudice against giants, as being a dull and 
sullen kind of persons. ‘This tremendous warder was appro- 
priately armed with a heavy club spiked with steel. In fine, 
he represented excellently one of those giants of popular 
romance, who figure in every fairy tale, or legend of knight- 
errantry. 

The demeanor of this modern Titan, when Wayland Smith 
bent his attention to: him, had in it something arguing much 
mental embarrassment and vexation; for sometimes he sat 
down for an instant on a massive stone bench, which seemed 
placed for his accommodation beside the gateway, and then 
ever and anon he started up scratching his huge head, and 
striding to and fro on his post, like one under a fit of impa- 
tience and anxiety. It was while the porter was pacing before 
the gate in this agitated manner, that Wayland, modestly, yet 
as a matter of course (not, however, without some mental 
misgiving,) was about to pass him, and enter the portal arch. 
The porter, however, stopped his progress, bidding him, in a 
thundering voice, “‘ Stand back!” and enforcing his injunction 
by heaving up his steel-shod mace, and dashing it on the 
ground before Wayland’s horse’s nose with such vehemence, 
that the pavement flashed fire, and the archway rang to the 
clamor. Wayland, availing himself of Dickie’s hints, began 
to state that he belonged to a band of performers to which his 
presence was indispensable,—that he had been accidentally 
detained behind,—and much to the same purpose. But the 
warden was inexorable, and kept muttering and murmuring 
something betwixt his teeth, which Wayland could make little 
of; and addressing betwixt whiles a refusal of admittance, 
couched in language which was but too intelligible. A speci- 
men of his speech might run thus :—‘‘ What, how now, my 
masters? ” (to himself)—“* Here’s a stir—here’s a coil.”—(Then 
to Wayland)—“ You are a loitering knave, and shall have no 
entrance.” —(Again to himself)—‘“‘ Here’s a throng—here’s a 
thrusting.—I shall never get through with it—Here’s a— 
humph—ha”—(To Wayland)—“ Back from the gate, or Ill 
break the pate of thee ”»—(Once more to himself)—“ Here’sa 
—no—lI shall never get through it.” 

“Stand still,” whispered Flibbertigibbet into Wayland’s ear. 
“T know where the shoes pinches, and will tame him in an in- 
stant.” 

He dropped down from the horse, and skipping up to the 


RENILWORTH. 279 


porter, plucked him by the tail of the bear-skin, so as to induce 
him to decline his huge head, and whispered something in his 
ear. Not at the command of the lord of some Eastern talisman 
did ever Afrite change his horrid frown into a look of smooth 
submission, more suddenly than the gigantic porter of Kenil- 
worth relaxed the terrors of his looks, at the instant Flibberti- 
zibbet’s whisper reached his ears. He flung his club upon the 
zround, and caught up Dickie Sludge, raising him to such a 
distance from the earth, as might have proved perilous had he 
chanced to let him slip. 

“It is even so,” he said, with a thundering sound of exult- 
ation—“ it is even so, my little dandieprat—But who the devil 
could teach it thee?” 

“Do not thou care about that,” said Flibbertigibbet ; “ but,” 
he looked at Wayland and the lady, and then sunk what 
he had to say in a whisper, which needed not to be a loud one, 
as the giant held him for his convenience close to his ear. 
The porter then gave Dickie a warm caress, and set him on the 
ground with the same care which a careful housewife uses In 
replacing a cracked china-cup upon her mantelpiece, calling 
out at the same time to Wayland and the lady, “In with you 
—in with you—and take heed how you come too late another 
day when I chance to be porter.” 

“Ay, ay, in with you,” added Flibbertigibbet ; “ I must stay 
a short space with my honest Philistine, my Goliath of Gath 
here; but I will be with you anon, and at the bottom of all 
your secrets, were they as deep and dark as the castle dun- 

eon.” 

*T do believe thou wouldst,” said Wayland; “but I trust 
the secret will be out of my keeping, and then I shall care the 
less whether thou or any one knows it.” 

They now crossed the entrance-tower, which obtained the 
name of the Gallery Tower from the following circumstances :— 
The whole bridge, extending from the entrance to another 
tower on the opposite side of the lake, called Mortimer’s Tower, 
was so disposed as to make a spacious tilt-yard about one 
hundred and thirty yards in length, and ten in breadth, strewed 
with the finest sand, and defended on either side by strong and 
high palisades. The broad and fair gallery, destined for the 
ladies who were to witness the feats of chivalry presented on 
this area, was erected on the northern side of the outer tower, 
to which it gave name. Our travelers passed slowly along the 
bridge or tilt-yard, and arrived at Mortimer’s Tower, at its 
furthest extremity, through which the approach led into the 
outer, or base court of the Castle. Mortimer’s Tower bore on 


280 KENILWORTH. 


its front the scutcheon of the Earl of March, whose daring 
ambition overthrew the throne of Edward II. and aspired to 
share his power with the ‘‘ She-wolf of France,’ to whom the 
unhappy monarch was wedded. ‘The gate, which opened under 
this ominous memorial, was guarded by many warders in rich 
liveries; but they offered no opposition to the entrance of the 
Countess and her guide, who, having passed by licence of the 
principal porter at the Gallery Tower, were not, it may be sup- 
posed, liable to interruption from his deputies. They entered 
accordingly, in silence, the great outward court of the Castle, 
having then full before them that vast and lordly pile, with all 
its stately towers, each gate open, as if in sign of unlimited 
hospitality, and the apartments filled with noble guests of 
every degree, besides dependants, retainers, domestics of every 
description, and all the appendages and promoters of mirth and 
revelry. e 

Amid this stately and busy scene, Wayland halted his horse, 
and looked upon the lady, as if waiting her commands what 
was next to be done, since they had safely reached the place of 
destination. As she remained silent, Wayland, after waiting a 
minute or two, ventured to ask her, in direct terms, what were 
her next commands. She raised her hand to her forehead, as 
if in the act of collecting her thoughts and resolution, while 
she answered him in a low and suppressed voice, like the 
murmurs of one who speaks in a dream—‘‘ Commands? I 
may indeed claim right to command, but who is there will obey 
me?” 

Then suddenly raising her head, like one who had formed a 
decisive resolution, she addressed a gayly dressed domestic, who 
was crossing the court with importance and bustle in his. coun- 
tenance.—“ Stop, sir,”’ she said, “I desire to speak with the 
Earl of Leicester.” 

“With whom, an it please you?” said the man, surprised at 
the demand; and then, looking upon the mean equipage of her 
who used toward him such a tone of authority, he added, with 
insolence, ‘Why, what Bess of Bedlam is this, would ask to 
see my lord on such a day as the present ?” 

“ Friend,” said the Countess, ‘‘ be not insolent—my business 
with the Earl is most urgent.” 

“You must get some one else to do it, were it thrice as, 
urgent,” said the fellow,—‘‘ I should summon my lord from the 
Queen’s royal presence to do your business, should I ?—I were 
liked to be thanked with a horse-whip. I marvel our old porter 
took not measure of such ware with his club, instead of giving 


KENILWORTH. 281 


them passage ; but his brain is addled with getting his speech 
by heart.” 

Two or three persons stopped, attracted by the fleering way 
in which the serving-man expressed himself; and Wayland, 
alarmed both for himself and the lady, hastily addressed him- 
self to one who appeared the most civil, and, thrusting a piece 
of money into his hand, held a moment’s counsel with him, on 
the subject of finding a place of temporary retreat for the lady. 
The person to whom he spoke, being one in some authority, 
rebuked the others for their incivility, and commanding one 
fellow to take care of the strangers’ horses, he desired them to 
follow him. The Countess retained presence of mind sufficient 
to see that it was absolutely necessary she should comply with 
his request; and, leaving the rude lackeys and grooms to crack 
their brutal jests about light heads, light heels, and so forth, 
Wayland and she followed in silence the deputy-usher, who 
undertook to be their conductor. 

They entered the inner court of the Castle by the great gate- 
way, which extended betwixt the principal keep, or Donjon, 
called Czesar’s Tower, and a stately building which passed by 
the name of King Henry’s Lodging, and were thus placed in 
the centre of the noble pile, which presented on its different 
fronts magnificent specimens of every species of castellated 
architecture, from the Conquest to the reign of Elizabeth, with 
the appropriate style and ornaments of each. 

Across this inner court also they were conducted by their 
guide to a small but strong tower occupying the north-east 

angle of the building, adjacent to the great hall, and filling up 
a space betwixt the 1 eokine range of “kitchens and the end of 
the great hall itself. The lower part of this tower was occupied 
by some of the household officers of Leicester, owing to its con- 
venient vicinity to the places where their duty lay ; but in the 
upper story, which was reached by anarrow winding stair, was 
a small octangular chamber, which, in the great demand for 
lodgings, had been on the present occasion fitted up for the 
reception of guests, though generally said to have been used as 
a place of confinement for some unhappy persons who had been 
there murdered. ‘Tradition called this prisoner Mervyn, and 
transferred his name to the tower. That it had been used as a 
prison was not improbable; for the floor of each story was 
arched, the walls of tremendous thickness, while the space of 
the chamber did not exceed fifteen feet in diameter. The 
window, however, was pleasant, though narrow, and com- 
manded a delightful view of what was called the P/easance ; 
@ space of ground enclosed and decorated with arches, trophies, 


282 KENILWORTH. 


statues, fountains, and other architectural monuments, which 
formed one access from the castle itself into the garden. There 
was a bed in the apartment, and other preparations for the 
reception of a guest, to which the Countess paid but slight 
attention, her notice being instantly arrested by the sight of 
writing materials placed on the table (not very commonly to 
be found in the bed-rooms of those days), which instantly. sug- 
gested the idea of writing to Leicester, and remaining private 
until she had received his answer. 

The deputy-usher having introduced them into this commo- 
dious apartment, courteously asked Wayland, whose generosity 
he had experienced, whether he could do anything further for 
his service. Upon receiving a gentle hint, that some refresh- 
ment would not be unacceptable, he presently conveyed the 
smith to the buttery-hatch, where dressed provisions of all sorts 
were distributed, with hospitable profusion, to all who asked for 
them. Wayland was readily supplied with some light pro- 
visions, such as he thought would best suit the faded appetite of 
the lady, and did not omit the opportunity of himself making 
a hasty but hearty meal on more substantial fare. He then 
returned to the apartment in the turret, where he found the 
Countess, who had finished her letter to Leicester; and, in Leu 
of a seal and silken thread, had secured it with a braid of her own 
beautiful tresses, fastened by what is called a true-love knot. 

“‘ Good friend,” said she to Wayland, ‘‘ whom God hath sent 
to aid me at the utmost need, I do beseech thee, as the last 
trouble you shall take for an unfortunate lady, to deliver this 
letter to the noble Earl of Leicester. Be it received as it may,” 
she said, with features agitated betwixt hope and fear, ‘ thou, 
good fellow, shalt have no more cumber with me. But I hope 
the best; and if ever lady made a poor man rich, thou hast 
surely deserved it at my hand, should my happy days ever come 
round again. Give it, I pray you, into Lord Leicester’s own 
hand, and mark how he Jooks on receiving it.” 

Wayland on his part, readily undertook the commission, but 
anxiously prayed the lady, in his turn, to partake of some re- 
freshment in which he at length prevailed, more through im- 
portunity, and her desire to see him begone on his errand, than 
from any inclination the Countess felt. to comply with his re- 
quest. He then left her, advising her to lock her door on the 
inside, and not to stir from her little apartment—and went to 
seek an opportunity of discharging her errand, as well as. of 
carrying into effect a purpose of his own, which circumstances 
had induced him to form, 

In fact, from the conduct of the lady during the journey— 


KENILWORTH. 283 
her long fits of profound silence—the irresolution and uncer: 
tainty which seemed to pervade all her movements, and the 
obvious incapacity of thinking and acting for herself, under 
which she seemed to labor, Wayland had formed the not im- 
probable opinion, that the difficulties of her situation had in 
some degree affected her understanding. 

When she had escaped from the seclusion of Cumnor Place, 
and the dangers to which she was there exposed, it would have 
seemed her most rational course to retire to her father’s, o1 
elsewhere, at a distance from the power of those by whom these 
dangers had been created. When, instead of doing so, she 
demanded to be conveyed to Kenilworth, Wayland had been 
only able to account for her conduct, by supposing that she 
meant to put herself under the tutelage of Tressilian, and to ap- 
peal to the protection of the Queen. But, now, instead of fol- 
lowing this natural course, she intrusted him with a letter to 
Leicester, the patron of Varney, and within whose jurisdiction 
at least, if not under his express authority, all the evils she had 
already suffered were inflicted upon her. This seemed an un- 
safe and even a desperate measure, and Wayland felt anxiety 
for his own safety, as well as that of the lady, should he exe- 
cute her commission before he had secured the advice and 
countenance of a protector. He therefore resolved, before de- 
livering the letter to Leicester, that he would seek out Tressil- 
ian, and communicate to him the arrival of the lady at Kenil- 
worth, and thus at once rid himself of all further responsibility, 
and devolve the task of guiding and protecting this unfortunate 
lady upon the patron who had at first employed him in her 
service. 

“He will be a better judge than I am,” said Wayland, 
“whether she is to be gratified in this humor of appeal to my 
Lord of Leicester, which seems like an act of insanity; and, 
therefore, I will turn the matter over on his hands, deliver him 
the letter, receive what they list to give me by way of guerdon, 
and then show the Castle of Kenilworth a pair of light heels; 
for, after the work I have been engaged in, it will be, I fear, 
neither a safe nor wholesome place of residence; and I would 
rather shoe colts on the coldest common in England than share 
in their gayest revels.” 


284 KENILWORTH. pis bed hy 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH. 


In my time I have seen a boy do wonders, 
Robin, the red tinker, had a boy, 
Would ha’ run through a cat-hole. 

THE COXCOMB, 


Amip the universal bustle which filled the Castle and its 
environs, it was no easy matter to find out any individual; and 
Wayland was still less likely to light upon Tressilian, whom he 
sought so anxiously, because, sensible of the danger of attract- 
ing attention, in the circumstances in which he was placed, he 
dared not make general inquiries among the retainers or do- 
mestics of Leicester. He learned, however, by indirect questions, 
that, in all probability, Tressilian must have been one of a large 
party of gentlemen in attendance on the Earl of Sussex, who 
had accompanied their patron that morning to Kenilworth, 
when Leicester had received them with marks of the most 
formal respect and distinction. He further learned, that both 
Earls, with their followers, and many other nobles, knights, and 
gentlemen, had taken horse, and gone towards Warwick several 
hours since, for the purpose of escorting the Queen to Kenil- 
worth, 

Her Majesty’s arrival, like other great events, was delayed 
from hour to hour; and it was now announced by a breathless 
post, that her Majesty being detained by her gracious desire to 
receive the homage of her. lieges who had thronged to wait 
upon her at Warwick, it would be the hour of twilicht ere she 
entered the Castle. ‘The intelligence released for a time those 
who were upon duty, in the immediate ex <pectation of the. 
Queen’s appearance, and ready to play their part in the solem- 
nities with which it was to be accompanied ; and Wayland, 

eeing several horsemen enter the Castle, was not without 
hopes that Tressilian might be of the number. That he might 
not lose an opportunity of meeting his patron in the event of 
this being the case, Wayland placed himself in the base-court 
of the Castle, near Mortimer’s ‘Tower, and watched every one 
who went or came by the bridge, the extremity of which was 
protected by that building. Thus stationed, nobody could 
enter or leave the Castle without his observation, and most 
anxiously did he study the garb oe countenance of every 


‘Sey 
horseman, as, passing from under the opposite Gallery Tower, 


KENILWORTH. 285 


they paced slowly, or curveted, along the tilt-yard, and ap- 
proached the entrance of the base-court. 

But while Wayland gazed thus eagerly to discover him whom 
he saw not, he was pulled by the sleeve by one by whom he 
himself would not willingly have been seen. 

This was Dickie Sludge, or Flibbertigibbet, wuo, like the 
imp whose name he bore, and whom he had been accoutred in 
order to resemble, seemed to be ever at the ear of those who 
thought least of him. Whatever were Wayland’s internal feel- 
ings, he judged it necessary to express pleasure at their unex: 
pected meeting. 

“Ha! is it thou, my minikin—my miller’s thumb—my 
prince of Cacodemons—my little mouse ?”’ 

“ Ay,” said Dickie, ‘the mouse which gnawed asunder the 
toils, just when the lion who was caught in them began to look 
wonderfully like an ass.” 

“Why, thou little hop-the-gutter, thou art as sharp as 
vinegar this afternoon! But tell me, how didst thou come off 
with yonder jolterheaded giant, whom I had left thee with ?— 
I was afraid he would have stripped thy clothes, and so swal- 
lowed thee, as men peel and eat a roasted chestnut.” 

“ Had he done so,” replied the boy, ‘he would have had 
more brains in his guts than ever he had in his noddle. But 
the giant is a courteous monster, and more grateful than many 
other folk whom I have helped at a pinch, Master Wayland 
Smith.” 

“Beshrew me, Flibbertigibbet,” replied Wayland, “but 
thou art sharper than a Sheffield whittle ! I would I knew by 
what charm you muzzled yonder old bear.” 

“Ay, that is in your manner,” answered Dickie; “ you 
think fine speeches will pass muster instead of good will. How- 
ever, as to this honest porter, you must know, that when we 
presented ourselves at the gate yonder, his brain was over- 
burdened with a speech that had been penned for him, and 
which proved rather an overmatch for his gigantic faculties. 
Now this same pithy. oration had been indited like sundry 
others, by my learned magister, Erasmus Holiday, so I had 
heard it often enough to remember every line. As soon as I 
heard him blundering and floundering like a fish upon dry 
land through the first verse, and perceived him at a stand, I 
knew where the shoe pinched, and helped him to the next word, 
when he caught me up in an ecstasy, even as you saw but now. 
I promised, as the price of your admission, to hide me under 
his bearish gaberdine, and prompt him in the hour of need. I 


286 KENILWORTH. 


have just now been getting some food in the castle, and am 
about to return to him.” | 

“That’s right—that’s right, my dear Dickie,” replied Way- 
land; “haste thee, for Heaven’s sake! else the poor giant 
will be utterly disconsolate for want of his dwarfish auxiliary— 
Away with thee, Dickie!” 

‘““ Ay, ay!” answered the boy—‘ Away with Dickie, when 
we have got what good of him we can.—You will not let me 
know the story of this lady, then, who is.as much sister of thine 
as Iam?” 

“Why, what good would it do thee, thou silly elf?” said 
Wayland. 

‘Oh, stand ye on these terms?” said the boy; “ well, I. 
care not greatly about the matter,—only, I never smell out a 
secret, but I try to be either at the right or the wrong of it, and 
so good evening to ye.” 

“Nay, but, Dickie,” said Wayland, who knew the boy’s rest- 
less and intriguing disposition too well not to fear his enmity— 
“stay, my dear Dickie—part not with old friends so shortly! 
—thou shalt know all I know of the lady one day.” 

“Ay!” said Dickie; ‘‘and that day may prove a nigh one. 
Fare-thee-well, Wayland—I will to my large-limbed friend, who, 
if he have not so sharp a wit as some folk, is at least more 
grateful for the service which other folk render him. And so 
again, good evening to ye.” 

So saying, he cast a somersault through the gateway, and, 
lighting on the bridge, ran with the extraordinary agility, which 
was one of his distinguishing attributes, toward the Gallery 
Tower, and was out of sight in an instant. 

‘“‘T would to God I were safe out of this Castle again!” 
prayed Wayland, internally “for now that this mischievous 
imp has put his finger in the pie, it cannot but prove a mess 
fit for the devil’s eating. JI would to Heaven Master Tressilian 
would appear !”’ 

Tressilian, whom he was thus anxiously expecting in one 
direction, had returned to Kenilworth by another access. It 
was indeed true, as Wayland had conjectured, that, in the 
earlier part of the day, he had accompanied the Earls on their 
cavalcade toward Warwick, not without hope that he might 
in that town hear some tidings of his emissary. Being disap- 
pointed in the expectation, and observing Varney amongst 
Leicester’s attendants, seeming as if he had some purpose of 
advancing to and addressing him, he conceived, in the present 
circumstances, it was wisest to avoid the interview. He, there- 
fore, left the presence-chamber when the High-Sheriff of the 


KENILWORTH. 287 | 


county was in the very midst of his dutiful address to her 
Majesty ; and, mounting his horse, rode back to Kenilworth, 
by a remote and circuitous road, and entered the castle by a 
small sally-port in the western wall, at which he was readily 
adm‘tted, as one of the followers of the Earl of Sussex, toward 
whom Leicester had commanded the utmost courtesy to be 
exercised, It was thus that he met not Wayland, who was 
impatiently watching his arrival, and whom he himself would 
have been, at least, equally desirous to see. 

Having delivered his horse to the charge of his attendant, he 
walked for a space in the Pleasance and in the garden, rather 
to indulge in comparative solitude his own reflections than to 
admire those singular beauties of nature and art which the 
magnificence of Leicester had there assembled. The greater 
part of the persons cf condition had left the Castle for the 
present, to form part of the Earl’s cavalcade; others, who re- 
mained behind, were on the battlements, outer walls, and 
towers, eager to view the splendid spectacle of the royal entry. 
The garden, therefore, while every other part of the Castle re- 
sounded with the human voice, was silent, but for the whis- 
pering of the leaves, the emulous warbling of the tenants of a 
large aviary, with their happier companions who remained 
denizens of the free air, and the plashing of the fountains, 
which, forced into the air from sculptures of fantastic and 
grotesque forms, fell down with ceaseless sound into the great 
basins of Italian marble. 

The melancholy thoughts of Tressilian cast a gloomy shade 
on all the objects with which he was surrounded. He com- 
pared the magnificent scenes which he here traversed, with the 
deep woodland and wild moorland which surrounded Lidcote 
Hall, and the image of Amy Robsart glided like a phantom 
through every landscape which his imagination summoned up, 
Nothing is perhaps more dangerous to the future happiness of 
men of deep thought and retired habits, than the entertaining 
an early, long, and unfortunate attachment. It frequently 
sinks so deep into the mind, that it becomes their dream by 
night and their vision by day—mixes itself with every source 
of interest and enjoyment; and when blighted and withered 
by final disappointment, it seems as if the springs of the heart 
were dried up along with it. This aching of the heart, this 
languishing after a shadow which has lost all the gayety of its 
coloring, this dwelling on the remembrance of a dream from 
which we have been long roughly awakened, is the weakness of 
a gentle and generous heart, and it was that of Tressilian. 

He himself at length became sensible of the necessity of 


288 KENILWORTH. 


forcing other objects upon his mind; and for this purpose he 
left the Pleasance, in order to mingle with the noisy crowd 
upon the walls, and view the preparation for the pageants. 
But as he left the garden, and heard the busy hum mixed with 
music and laughter, which floated around him, he felt an 
uncontrollable reluctance to mix with society, whose feelings 
were in a tone so different from his own, and resolved, instead 
of doing so, to retire to the chamber assigned him, and emplo 
himself in study until the tolling of the great castle-bell should 
announce the arrival of Elizabeth. 

Tressilian crossed accordingly by the passage betwixt the 
immense range of kitchens and the great hall, and ascended 
to the third story of Mervyn’s ‘Tower, and applying himself to 
the door of the small apartment which had been allotted to 
him, was surprised to find it was locked. He then recollected 
that the deputy-chamberlain had given him a_master-key, ad- 
vising him, in the present confused state of the Castle, to 
keep his door as much shut as possible. He applied this key 
to the lock, the bolt revolved, he entered, and in the same 
instant saw a female form seated in the apartment, and recog- 
nized that form to be Amy Robsart. His first idea was, that a 
heated imagination had raised the. image on which it doted 
into visible existence; his second, that he beheld an apparition 
—the third and abiding conviction, that it was Amy herself, 
paler, indeed, and thinner than in the days of heedless happi- 
ness, when she possessed the form and hue of a wood-nymph, 
with the beauty of a sylph; but still Amy, unequaled in love-_ 
liness by aught which had ever visited his eyes. 

The astonishment of the Countess was scarce less than 
that of Tressilian, although it was of shorter duration because 
she had heard from Wayland that he was in the Castle. 
She had started up on his first entrance, and now stood fac- 
ing him, the paleness of her cheeks having given way to a deep 
blush. 

“ Tressilian,” she said at length, ‘why come you here ?” 

“Nay, why come you here, Amy,” returned Tressilian, “ un- 
less it be at length to claim that aid, which, as far as one 
man’s heart and arm can extend, shall instantly be rendered te 


you ?”’ 
She was silent a moment, and then answered in a sorrowful 
rather than an angry tone,—‘‘ I require no aid, Tressilian, and 


would rather be injured than benefited by any which your kind- 
ness can offerme. Believe me, I am near one whom law an 
love oblige to protect me.” | 

‘* The villain, then, hath done you the poor justice which 


KENTT WORTH. 289 


remained in his power,” said ‘i'ressilian ; “and I behold before 
me the wife of Varney!” 

“The wife of Varney!” she replied, with all the emphasis 
of scorn; “with what base name, sir, does your boldness. stig: 
matize the—the—the ”—She hesitated, dropped her tone oi 
scorn, looked down, and was confused and silent, for she rec- 
ollected what fatal consequences might attend her completing 
the sentence with “the Countess of Leicester,” which were 
the words that had naturally suggested themselves. It would 
have been a betrayal of the secret, on which her husband had 
assured her that his fortunes depended, to Tressilian, to Sussex, 
to the Queen, and to the whole assembled court. ‘* Never,” 
she thought, ‘ will I break my promised silence. I will sub- 
mit to every suspicion rather than that.” 

The tears rose to her eyes, as she stood silent before Tres- 
silian ; while, looking on her with mingled grief and pity, he 
said, ‘‘ Alas! Amy, your eyes contradict your tongue. ‘That 
speaks of a protector, willing and able to watch over you; 
but these tell me you are ruined, and deserted by the wretch 
to whom you have attached yourself.” 

“She looked on him with eyes in which anger sparkled 
through her tears, but only repeated the word “wretch!” with 
a scornful emphasis. 

“Yes, wretch!” said Tressilian; “ for were he aught better, 
why are you here, and alone in my apartment? why was not 
fitting provision made for your honorable reception ?”’ 

“Tn your apartment ?”’ repeated Amy; “in your apartment ? 
It shall instantly be relieved of my presence.” She hastened 
toward the door; but the sad recollection of her deserted state 
at once pressed on her mind, and, pausing on the threshold, 
she added, in a tone unutterably pathetic, “Alas! I had for- 
got—I know not where to go” 

““T see—I see it all,” said Tressilian, springing to her side, 
and leading her back to the seat, on which she sunk down— 
“You do need aid—you do need protection, though you will 
not own it; and you shall not need it long. Leaning on my 
arm, as the representative of your excellent and broken-hearted 
father, on the very threshold of the Castle, you shall meet 
Elizabeth; and the first deed she shall do in the halls of 
Kenilworth shall be an act of justice to her sex and her sub 
jects. Strong in my good cause, and in the Queen’s justice, 
the power of her minion shall not shake my resolution. I 
will instantly seek Sussex.” 

‘* Not for all that is under heaven! ” said the Countess, much 
alarmed, and feeling the absolute necessity of obtaining time, 


290 KENILWORTH, 


at least, for consideration. ‘Tressilian, you were wont to be 
generous—Grant me one request, and believe, if it be your wish 
to save me from misery, and from madness, you will do more 
by making me the promise I ask of you, than Elizabeth can da 
for me with all her power.” 

“Ask me anything for which you can allege reason,” saie 
Tressilian ; ‘but demand not of me” 

“Oh, limit not your boon, dear Edmund!” exclaimed the 
Countess-—“ you once loved that I should call you so—Limit not 
your boon to reason! for my case is all madness, and frenzy 
must guide the counsels which alone can aid me.” 

“Tf you speak thus wildly,” said Tressilian, astonishment 
again overpowering both his grief and his resolution, “I must 
believe you indeed incapable of thinking or acting :or yourself.’ 

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, sinking on one knee before him, 
“Tam not mad—I am but a creature unutterably miserable, 
and, from circumstances the most singular, dragged on to a 
precipice by the arm of him who thinks he is keeping me from 
it—even by yours, Tressilian—by yours, whom I have honored, 
respected—all but loved—yet loved, too—loved, too, Tressilian 
—though not as you wished to be.” 

There was an energy—a self-possession—an abandonment in 
her voice and manner—a total resignation of herself to his 
generosity, which, together with the kindness of her expressions 
to himself, moved him deeply. He raised her, and in broken 
accents entreated her to be comforted. 

‘IT cannot,” she said, ‘*i will not be comforted, till you 
grant me my request! I will speak as plainly as I dare—I am 
now awaiting the commands of one who has aright to issue them 
—The interference of a third person—of you in especial, Tres- 
silian, will be ruin—utter ruin to me. Wait but four-and-twenty 
hours, and it may be that the poor Amy may have the means te 
show that she values, and can reward, your disinterested friend 
ship—that she is happy herself, and has the means to’ make you 

so—lIt is surely worth your patience, forso short a space?” 

Tressilian paused, and weighing in his mind the various 
probabilities which might render a violent interference on his 
part more prejudicial than advantageous, both to the happiness 
and reputation of Amy, considering also that she was within the 
walls of Kenilworth, and. could “suffer no injury in a castle 
honored with the Queen’ s residence, and filled with her guards 
and attendants,—he conceived, upon the whole, that he “might 
render her more evil than good service, by intruding upon her his 
appeal to Elizabeth in her behalf. He expressed his resolution 
cautiously, however, doubting naturally whether Amy’s hopes of 


KENILWORTH. - 291 


extricating herself from her difficulties rested on anything 
stronger than a blinded attachment to Varney, whom he sup- 
posed to be her seducer. 

“ Amy,” he said, while he fixed his sad and expressive eyes on 
hers, which, in her ecstasy of doubt, terror, and perplexity, she 
cast up toward him, “ I have ever remarked, that when others 
called thee girlish and wilful, there lay under that external 
semblance of youthful and self-willed folly, deep feeling and 
strong sense. In this I will confide, trusting your own fate in 
your own hands for the space of twenty-four hours, without my 
interference by word or act.” 

“ Do you promise me this, Tressilian ?”’ said the Countess. 
“Is it possible you can yet repose so much confidence in me? 
Do you promise, as you are a gentleman and a man of honor, 
to intrude in my matters, neither by speech nor action, what- 
ever you may see or hear that seems to you to demand your 
interference ?—Will you so far trust me? ” 

“T will, upon my honor,” said Tressilian ; ‘“‘ but when that 
space is expired” 

“When that space is expired,” she said, interrupting him, 
“you are free to act as your judgment shall determine.” 

“Ts there nought besides which I can do for you, Amy?” 
said Tressilian. 

“Nothing,” said she, ‘save to leave me,—that is, if—I 
blush to acknowledge my helplessness by asking it—if you can 
spare me the use of this apartment for the next twenty-four 
hours.’’, 

“This is most wonderful!” said Tressilian ; “‘ what hope or 
interest can you have in a castle, where you cannot command 
even an apartment?” 

“ Argue not, but leave me,” she said; and added, as he 
.slowly and unwillingly retired, Generous Edmund! the time 
may come when Amy may show she deserved thy noble 
attachment.” 


292 KENILWORTH, 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH. 


What, man, ne’er lack a draught, when the full can 

Stands at thine elbow, and craves emptying !— 

Nay, fear not me, for I have no delight 

To watch men’s vices, since I have myself 

Of virtue nought to boast of.—I’m a striker, 

Would have the world strike with me, pell-mell, all. 
PANDA:MONIUM. 


TRESSILIAN, in strange agitation of mind, had hardy stepped 
down the rst two or three steps of the winding staircase, when, 
greatly to his surprise and displeasure, he met Michael Lam. - 
bourne, wearing an imprudent familiarity of visage, for which 
Tressilian felt much disposed to throw him down stairs 3 until 
he remembered the prejudice which Amy, the only object of his 
solicitude, was likely to receive from his engaging in any act 
of violence at that time, and in that place. 

He therefore contented himself with looking sternly upon 
Lambourne, as upon one whom he deemed unworthy of notice, 
and attempted to pass him in his way down stairs, without any 
symptom of recognition. But Lambourne, who, amidst the pro- 
fusion of that day’s hospitality, had not failed to take a deep, 
though not an overpowering cup of sack, was not in the humor 
of humbling himself before any man’s looks. He stopped 
Tressilian upon the staircase without the least bashfulness or 
embarrassment, and addressed him as if he had been on kind 
and intimate terms :—‘‘ What, no grudge between us, I hope, 
upon all scores, Master Tressilian ?—nay, I am one who re 
member former kindness rather than latter feud—lI’ll convince 
you that I meant honestly and kindly, ay, and comfortably by 
you.” 

“‘T desire none of your intimacy,” said Tress:lian—“ keen 
company with your mates.” 

“‘ Now, see how hasty he is!” said Lambourne: “ and how 
these gentles, that are made questionless out of the porcelair 
clay of the earth, look down upon poor Michael Lambourne $ 
You would take Master Tressilian now for the most maid-like, 
modest, simpering squire of dames, that ever made love when 
candles were long 1’ the stuff—snuff, call you it ?—Why, you 
would play the saint on us, Master Tressilian, and forget that 
even now thou hast commodity i in thy very bed chamber, to the 
shame of my lord’s castle, ha! ha!ha! Have I touched you, 
Master Tressilian ?” 


KENILWORTH. 293 
“T know not what you mean,” said Tressilian, inferring, 
however, too surely, that this licentious ruffian must have been 
sensible of Amy’s presence in his apartment; ‘ but if,” he con- 
tinued, “thou art varlet of the chambers, and lackest a fee there 
is one to leave mine unmolested.” 

Lambourne looked at the piece of gold, and put it in his 
pocket, saying—‘ Now, I know not but you might have done 
more with me by a kind word, than by this chiming rogue. 
But after all he pays well that pays with gold—and Mike Lam- 
bourne was never a make-bate, or a spoil-sport, or the like. 
H’en live and let others live, that is my motto—only, I would 
not let some folks cock their beaver at me neither, as if they 
were made of silver ore, and I of Dutch pewter. So if I keep 
your secret, Master Tressilian, you may look sweet on me at 
least; and were I to want a little backing or countenance, be- 
ing caught, as you see the best of us may be in a sort of pec 
cadiilo—why, you owe it me-—and so e’en make your chamber 
serve you and that same bird in bower bes.de—it’s all one to 
Mike Lambourne.” 

“Make way, sir,” said Tressilian, unable to bridle his indig- 
nation, “ you have had your fee.” 

“Um!” said Lambourne, giving place, however while he 
sulkily muttered between his teeth, repeating Tressilian’s words 
—‘‘ Make way—and you have had your fee—but it matters not, 
I will spoil no sport, as I said before; Iam no dog in the 
manger—mind that.” | 

He spoke louder and louder, as Tressilian, by whom he felt 
himself overawed, got further and further out of hearing. 

“Tam no dog in the manger—but I will not carry coals 
neither—mind that, my Master Tressilian; and I will have a 
peep at this wench, whom you have quartered so commodiously 
in your old haunted room—afraid of ghosts, belike, and not too 
willing to sleep alone.. If 7 had done this now in a strange 
lord’s castle, the word had been,—The porter’s lodge for the 
knave ! and—Have him flogged—trundle him down stairs like 
a turnip !—Ay, but your virtuous gentleman take strange privi- 
leges over us, who are downright servants of our senses. Well 
—I have my Master Tressilian’s head under my belt by this 
lucky discovery, that is one thing certain; and I will try to get 
a sight of this Lindabrides of his, that is another.” 


¢ 


294 KENILWORTH. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH. 


Now fare-thee-well, my master—if true service 
Be guerdon’d with hard looks, e’en cut the tow-line, 
And let our barks across the pathless flood 
Hold different courses— 
SHIPWRECK. 


TRESSILIAN walked into the outer yard of the Castle, scarce 
knowing what to think of his late strange and most unexpected 
interview with Amy Robsart, and dubious if he had done well, 
being intrusted with the delegated authority of her father, to 
pass his word so solemnly to leave her to her own guidance for 
so many hours. Yet how could he have denied her request,— 
dependent as she had too probably rendered herself upon Var- 
ney? Such was his natural reasoning. The happiness of her 
future life might depend upon his not driving her to extremi- 
ties, and since no authority of Tressilian’s could extricate her 
from the power of Varney, supposing he was to acknowledge 
Amy to be his wife, what title had he to destroy the hope of 
domestic peace, which might yet remain to her, by setting 
enmity betwixt them? ‘Tressilian resolved therefore, scrupu- 
lously to observe his word pledged to Amy, both because it had 
been given, and because, as he still thought, while he con- 
sidered and reconsidered that extraordinary interview, it could 
not with justice or propriety have been refused. 

In one respect, he had gained much toward securing effec- 
tual protection for this unhappy and still beloved object of his 
early affection. Amy was no longer mewed up in a distant and 
solitary retreat, under the charge of persons of doubtful repu- 
tation. She was in the Castle of Kenilworth, within the verge 
of the Royal Court for the time, free from all risk of violence, 
and liable to be produced before Elizabeth on the first sum- 
mons. ‘These were circumstances which could not but assist 
greatly the efforts which he might have occasion to use in her 
behalf. 

While he was thus balancing the advantages and perils 
which attended her unexpected presence in Kenilworth, Tres- 
silian was hastily and anxiously accosted by Wayland, who, after 
ejaculating, ‘‘ Thank God, your worship is found at last !” pro- 
ceeded, with breathless caution, to pour into his ear the intel 
ligence that the lady had escaped from Cumnor Place. 

‘‘And is at present in this Castle,” said Tressilian; “I 


KENILWORTH. 295 


know it, and I have seen her—Was it by her own choice she 
found refuge in my apartment ? ”’ 

“No,” answered Wayland; “but I could think of no other 
way of safely bestowing her, and was but too happy to find a 
deputy-usher who knew where you were quartered ;—in jolly 
society truly, the hall on the one hand and the kitchen on the 
other!” 

“‘ Peace, this is no time for jesting,’’ answered Tressilian 
sternly. 

‘** | wot that but too well,” said the artist, “‘ for I have felt 
these three days as if I had a halter round my neck. This lady 
knows not her own mind—she will have none of your aid— 
commands you not to be named to her—and is about to put 
herself into the hands of my Lord Leicester. I had never got 
her safe into your chamber, had she known the owner of it.” 

“Is it possible ?”’ said Tressilian. ‘* But she may have 
hopes the Earl will exert his influence in her favor over his 
villanous dependant.” 

““T know nothing of that,” said Wayland—“ but I believe, 
if she is to reconcile herself with either Leicester or Varney, 
the side of the Castle of Kenilworth which will be safest for us 
will be the outside, from which we can fastest fly away. Itis not 
my purpose to abide an instant after delivery of the letter to 
Leicester, which waits but your commands to find its way to 
him. See, here it is—but no—a plague on it—I must have 
left it in my dog-hole, in the hay-loft yonder, where I am to 
sleep.’ 

“ Death and fury!” said Tressilian, transported beyond his 
usual patience; “thou hast not lost that on which may de- 
pend a stake more important than a thousand such lives as 
thine?” 

“Lost it!” answered Wayland, readily; “ that were a jest 
indeed! No, sir, I have it carefully put up with my night-sack, 
and some matters I have occasion to use—lI will fetch it in an 
instant.” 

“To so,” said Tressilian ; “be faithful, and thou shalt be 
well rewarded. But if I have reason to suspect thee, a dead 
dog were in better case than thou!” 

Wayland bowed, ana took his leave with seeming confidence 
and alacrity but, in fact, filled with the utmost dread and 
confusion. ‘The letter was lost, that was certain, notwithstand- 
ing the apology which he had made to appease the impatient 
displeasure of Tressilian. It was lost—it might fall into wrong 
hands—it would then, certainly, occasion a discovery of the 
whole intrigue in which he had been engaged; nor, indeed, did 


296 KENILWORTH. 


Wayland see much prospect of remaining concealed, in any 
event. He felt much hurt besides, at Tressilian’s burst of im- 
patience. 

‘“‘ Nay, if I am to be paid in this coin for services where my 
neck is concerned, it is time I should look to myself. Here 
have I offended, for aught I know, to the death, the lord of this 
stately castle, whose word were as powerful to take away my 
life, as the breath which speaks it to blow out a farthing 
candle. And all this for a mad lady, and a melancholy gal- 
lant ; who, on the loss of a four-nooked bit of paper, has his 
hand on his poignado, and swears death and fury !—Then 
there is the Doctor and Varney—I will save myself from the 
whole mess of them—Life is dearer than gold—I will fly this 
instant, though I leave my reward behind me.” 

These reflections naturally enough occurred to a mind like 
Wayland’s, who found himself engaged far deeper than he had 
expected in a train of mysterious and unintelligible intrigues, 
in which the actors seemed hardly to know their own course. 
And yet, to do him justice, his personal fears were, in| some 
degree, counterbalanced by his compassion for the deserted 

state of the lady. 

“‘T care not a groat for Master Tressilian,” he said ; ure | 
have done more than bargain by him, and I have brought his: 
errant-damsei within his reach, so that he may look after her 
himself, but I fear the poor thing is in much danger amongst 
these stormy spirits. I will to her chamber, and tell her the 
fate which has befallen her letter, that she may write another 
if she list. She cannot lack a messenger, I trow, where there 
are so many lackeys that can carry a letter to their lord. And 
I will tell her also that. I leave the Castle, trusting her to God, 
her own guidance, and Master Tressilian’s care and looking 
after.—Perhaps she may remember the ring she offered me— 
it was well earned, I trow; but she is a lovely creature, and— 
marry hang the ring ! I will not bear a base spirit for the 
matter, If I fare ill in this world for my good nature, I shall 
have better chance in the next.—So now for the lady, and then 
for the road.” 

With the stealthy step and jealous eye of the cat that steals 
on her prey, Wayland resumed the way to the Countess’s 
chamber, sliding along by the side of the courts and passages, 
alike observant of all around him, and studious himself to 
escape observation. In, this manner, he crossed the outward 
and inward castle-yard, and the great arched passage, which, 
running betwixt the range of kitchen offices and the hall, led 


KENILWORTH. 294 


to the bottom of the little winding stair that gave access to the 
chambers of Mervyn’s Tower. 

The artist congratulated himself on having escaped the vari 
ous perils of his journey, and was in the act of ascending by two 
steps at once, when he observed that the shadow of a man, 
thrown from a door which stood ajar, darkened. the opposite 
wall of the staircase. Wayland drew back ‘cautiously, went 
down to the inner courtyard, spent about a quarter of an hour, 
which seemed at least quadruple its usual duration, in walking 
from place to place, and then returned to the tower in hopes, 
to find that the lurker had disappeared. He ascended as high 
as the suspicious spot—there was no shadow on the wall—he 
ascended a few yards further—the door was still ajar, and he 
was doubtful whether to advance or retreat, when it was sud- 
denly thrown wide open, and Michael Lambourne bolted out 
upon the astonished Wayland. ‘ Who the devil art thou ? and 
what seek’st thou in this part of the Castle? March into that 
chamber, and be hanged to thee !” 

“Tam no dog to go at every man’s whistle,” said the artist, 
affecting a confidence which was belied by a timid shake in his 
voice. 

* Say’st thou me so ?—Come hither, Lawrence Staples.” 

A huge ill-made and ill-looked fellow, upward of six feet 
high, appeared at the door, and Lambourne proceeded : “ If 
thou be’st so fond of this tower, my friend, thou shalt see its 
foundations, good twelve feet below the bed of the lake, and 
tenanted by certain jolly toads, snakes, and so forth, which 
thou wilt find mighty good company. Therefore once more I 
ask you, in fair play, who thou art, and what thou seek’st 
here?” 

“If the dungeon-grate once clashes behind me,” thought 
Wayland, “Iam agone man.’ He therefore answered sub- 
missively, ‘‘ He was the poor juggler whom his honor had met 
yesterday in Weatherly-bottom.” 

“And what juggling trick art thou playing in this tower? 
Thy gang,” said Lambourne, “lie over against Clinton's 
buildings.” 

“I came here to see my sister,” said the juggler, ‘‘ who is in 
Master Tressilian’s chamber, just above.” 

“ Aha!” said Lambourne, smiling, “‘here be truths! Upon 
my honor, for a stranger, this same Master. Tressilian makes 
himself at home among us, and furnishes out his cell hand- 
somely, with all sort of commodities. This will be a precious 
tale of the sainted Master Tressilian, and will be welcome to 
some folks, as a purse of broad pieces to me,—Hark ye, fel- 


298 RENILWORTH. 


low,” he continued, addressing Wayland, “ thou shalt not give 
Puss a hint to steal away—we must catch her in her form. So, 
back with that pitiful sheep-biting visage of thine, or I will fling 
thee from the window of the tower, and try if your juggling 
skill can save thy bones.” 

‘Your worship will not be so hard-hearted, I trust,” said 
Wayland; ‘poor folk must live. I trust your honor will allow 
me to speak with my sister ?”’ 

*“* Sister on Adam’s side, I warrant,” said Lambourne; “or, 
if otherwise, the more knave thou. But, sister or no sister, 
thou diest on point of fox, if thou comest a-prying to this tower 
once more. And now I think of it—uds daggers and death} 
—I will see thee out of the Castle, for this is a more main con- 
cern than thy jugglery.” 

‘“‘But, please your worship,” said Wayland, “I am to enact 
Arion in the pageant upon the lake this very evening.” 

“J will act it myself, by Saint Christopher!” said Lam- 
bourne—‘“ Orion, call’st thou him ?—TI will act Orion, his belt, 
and his seven stars to boot. Come along, for a rascal knave 
as thou art—follow me !—Or stay—Lawrence, do thou bring 
him along.” 

Lawrence seized by the collar of the cloak the unresisting 
juggler, while Lambourne, with hasty steps, led the way to that 
same sallyport, or secret postern, by which ‘Tressilian had re- 
turned to the Castle, and which opened in the western wall, at 
no great distance from Mervyn’s Tower. 

While traversing with a rapid foot the space betwise the 
tower and the sally port, Wayland in vain racked his brain for 
some device which might avail the poor lady, for whom, not- 
withstanding his own imminent danger, he felt deep interest. 
But when he was thrust out of the Castle, and informed by 
Lambourne, with a tremendous oath, that instant death would 
be the consequence of his again approaching it, he cast up his 
hands and eyes to heaven, as if to call God to witness he had 
stood to the uttermost in defence of the oppressed ; then turned 
his back on the proud towers of Kenilworth, and went his way 
to seek a humbler and safer place of refuge. 

Lawrence and Lambourne gazed a little while after Way: 
land, and then turned to go back to their tower, when the 
former thus addressed his companion: ‘ Never credit me, 
Master Lambourne, if I can guess why thou hast driven this 
poor caitiff from the Castle, just when he was to bear a part in 
the show that was beginning, and all this about a wench.” 

“Ah, Lawrence,” replied Lambourne, “thou art thinking of 
Black Joan Jugges of Slingdon, and hast sympathy with human 


KENILWORTH. 299 


frailty. But couragio, most noble Duke of the Dungeon and 
Lord of Limbo, for thou art as dark in this matter as thine 
own dominions of Little-ease. My most reverend Signior 
of the Low Countries of Kenilworth, know that our most 
notable master, Richard Varney, would give as much to have 
a hole in this same ‘Tressilian’s coat, as would make us some 
fifty midnight carousals, with the full leave of bidding the 
steward go snick up, if he came to startle us too soon from our 
goblets.” 

“Nay, an that be the case, thou hast right,” said Lawrence 
Staples, the upper-warder, or, in common phrase, the first jailer, 
of Kenilworth Castle, and of the Liberty and Honor belonging 
thereto; “but how will you manage when you are absent at 
the Queen’s entrance, Master Lambourne; for methinks thou 
must attend thy master there?” 

‘Why thou, mine honest prince of prisons, must keep ward 
in my absence—Let Tressilian enter if he will, but see thou let 
no one come out. If the damsel herself would make a break, 
as ’tis not unlike she may, scare her back with rough words— 
she is but a paltry player’s wench after all.” 

“Nay, for that matter,” said Lawrence, I might shut the 
iron wicket upon her, that stands without the double door, and 
so force per force she will be bound to her answer without more 
trouble.” 

“Then Tressilian will not get access to her,” said Lam- 
bourne, reflecting a moment. “ But ’tis no matter—she will be 
detected in his chamber, and that is all one.—But confess, thou 
oid bat’s-eyed dungeon-keeper, that you fear to keep awake by 
yourself in that Mervyn’s Tower of thine.” 

“Why, as to fear, Master Lambourne,”’ said the fellow, “I 
mind it not the turning of a key ; but strange things have been 
heard and seen in that tower.—You must have heard, for as 
short a time as you have been in Kenilworth, that it is haunted 
by the spirit of Arthur ap Mervyn, a wild chief taken by fierce 
Lord Mortimer, when he was one of the Lords Marchers of 
Wales, and murdered, as they say, in that same tower which 
bears his name?” 

““Oh, I have heard the tale five hundred times,” said Lam: 
bourne, “and how the ghost is always most vociferous when 
they boil leeks and stirabout, or fry toasted cheese, in the culi- 
nary regions. Santa Diavolo, man, hold thy tongue, I know all 
about it!” 

“ Ay, but thou dost not, though,” said the turnkey, ‘for as 
wise as thou wouldst make thyself. Ah, it is an awful thing 
to murder a prisoner in his ward !—You, that may have given 


300 KENILWORTH. 


aman a Stab in a dark street, know nothing of it. To give a 
mutinous fellow a knock on the head with the keys, and bid 
him be quiet, that’s what I call keeping order in the ward; but 
to draw weapon and slay him, as was done to this Welsh lord, 
that raises you a ghost that will render your prison-house un. 
tenantable by any decent captive for some hundred years. And 
I have that regard for my prisoners, poor things, that I have put 
good squires and men of worship, that have taken a ride on the 
highway, or slandered my Lord of Leicester, or the like, fifty 
feet under ground, rather than J would put them into that upper 
chamber yonder that they call Mervyn’s Bower. Indeed, by 
good Saint Peter of the Fetters, | marvel, my noble lord, or 
Master Varney, could think of lodging guests there; and if 
this Master Tressilian could get any one to keep him company, 
and in especial a pretty wench, why, truly, I think he was in 
the right on’t.” 

“‘T tell thee,’ said Lambourne, leading the way into the 
turnkey’s apartment, ‘“‘ thou art an ass—Go bolt the wicket on 
the stair, and trouble not thy noddle about ghosts—Give me 
the wine-stoup man; I am somewhat heated with chafing with 
yonder rascal. 

While Lambourne drew a long draught from a pitcher of 
claret, which he made use of without any cup, the warder went 
on vindicating his own belief in the supernatural. 

“Thou hast been few hours in this Castle, and hast been 
for the whole space so drunk, Lambourne, that thou art deaf, 
dumb, and blind. But we should hear less of your bragging, 
were you to pass a night with us at full moon, for then the 
ghost is busiest ; and more especially when a rattling wind sets 
in from the north-west, with some sprinkling of rain, and now 
and then a growl of thunder. Body o’ me, what crackings and 
clashings, what groanings and what howlings, will there be at 
such times in Mervyn’s Bower, right as it were over our heads, 
till the matter of two quarts of distilled waters has not been 
enough to keep my lads and me in some heart!” 

*“ Pshaw, man!” replied Lambourne, on whom his last 
draught, joined to repeated visitations of the pitcher upon 
former occasions, began to make some innovation, ‘ thou 
speak’st thou know’st not what about spirits. No one knows 
justly what to say about them; and, in short, least said may in 
that matter be soonest amended. Some men believe in one 
thing, some in another—it is all matter of fancy. I have known 
them of all sorts, my dear Lawrence Lock-the-door, and sensi- 
ble men too. ‘There’s a great lord—we’ll pass his name, Law- 
rence—he believes in the stars and the moon, the planets, and 


KENILWORTH. 301 


their courses, and so forth, and that they twinkle exclusively 
for his benefit; when in sober, or rather in drunken truth, 
Lawrence, they are only shining to keep honest fellows like me 
out of the kennel. Well, sir, let his humor pass, he is great 
enough to indulge it. Then look ye, there is another—a very 
learned man, I promise you, and can vent Greek and Hebrew 
as fast as I can Thieves’-Latin—he has a humor of sympathies 
and antipathies—of changing lead into gold, and the like— 
-why, via, let that pass too, and Jet him pay those in trans- 
migrated coin, who are fools enough to let it be current with 
them.—Then here comest thou thyself, another great man, 
though neither Jearned nor noble, yet full six feet high, and 
thou, like a purblind mole, must needs believe in ghosts and 
goblins, and such like.—Now, there is, besides, a great man 
—that is a great little man, or a little great man, my dear 
Lawrence—and his name begins with V, and what believes 
he? Why, nothing, honest Lawrence — nothing in earth, 
heaven or hell; and for my part, if I believe there is a devil, 
it is only because I think there must be some one to catch our 
aforesaid friend by the back ‘when soul and body sever,’ as 
the ballad says—for your antecedent will have a consequent 
—raro antecedentem, as Doctor Bircham was wont to say—But 
this is Greek to you now, honest Lawrence, and in sooth learn- 
ing is dry work—Hand me the pitcher once more.” 

“Tn faith, if you drink more, Michael,” said the warder, 
“vou will be in sorry case either to play Arion or to wait on 
your master on such a solemn night; ancl I expect each mo- 
ment to hear the great bell toll for the muster at Mortimer’s 
Tower to receive the Queen.” 

While Staples remonstrated, Lambourne drank ; and then 
setting down the pitcher, which was nearly emptied, with a 
deep sigh, he said, in an under tone, which soon rose to a 
high one as his speech proceeded, “‘ Never mind, Lawrence— 
if I be drunk, I know that shall make Varney uphold me 
sober! But, as I said, never mind, I can carry my drink 
discreetly. Moreover, I am to go on the water as Orion, and 
shall take cold unless I take something comfortable be fore- 
hand. Not play Orion! Let us see the best roarer that 
ever strained his lungs for twelvepence out-mouth me! What 
if they see me a little disguised ?—Wherefore should any man 
be sober to-night? answer me that—lIt is matter of loyalty to 
be merry—and I tell thee, there are those in the Castle, who, 
if they are not merry when drunk, have little chance to be 
merry when sober—I name no names, Lawrence. But your 
pottle of sack is a fine shoeing horn to pull on a loyal humor 


302 KENILWORTH. 


and a merry one. Huzza for Queen Elizabeth !—for the 
noble Leicester!—for the worshipful Master Varney !— 
for Michael Lambourne, that can turn them all round his 
finger!” | 

"So saying, he walked down stairs, and across the inner 
court. 

The warder looked after him, shook his head, and, while he 
drew close and locked a wicket, which, crossing the staircase, 
rendered it impossible for any one to ascend higher than the 
storey immediately beneath Mervyn’s Bower, as Tressilian’s 
chamber was named, he thus soliloquzied with himself—* It’s 
a good thing to be a favorite—I well-nigh lost mine office, 
because one frosty morning Master Varney thought I smelled 
of aquavite; and this fellow can appear before him drunk as 
a wineskin, and yet meet no rebuke. But then he is a pesti- 
lent clever fellow withal, and no one can understand above 
one-half of what he says.” 


CHAPTER THIRTIETH. 


Now bid the steeple rock—she comes, she comes !— 
Speak for us, bells—speak for us, shrill-tongued tuckets. 
Stand to thy linstock, gunner; let thy cannon 
Play such a peal, as if a paynim foe 
Came stretch’d in turban’d ranks to storm the ramparts. 
We will have pageants too—but that craves wit, 
And I’m a rough-hewn soldier. 

THE VIRGIN QUEEN—A TRAGI-COMEDY. 


TRESSILIAN, when Wayland had left him, as mentioned in 
the last chapter, remained uncertain what he ought next to 
do, when Raleigh and Blount came up to him arm in arm, yet, 
according to their wont, very eagerly disputing together. Tres- 
silian had no great desire for their society in the present state 
of his feelings, but there was no possibility of avoiding them: 
and indeed he felt that, bound by his promise not to approach 
Amy, or take any step in her behalf, it would be his best course 
at once to mix with general society, and to exhibit on his brow 
as little as he could of the anguish and uncertainty which sat 
heavy at his heart. He therefore made a virtue of necessity, 
and hailed his comrades with, “All mirth to you, gentlemen, 
Whence come ye?” 

‘From Warwick, to be sure,” said Blount; ‘‘ we must needs 


KENILWORTH. 303 


home to change our habits, like poor players, who are fain to 
multiply their persons to outward appearance by change of 
suits ; and you had better do the like, Tressilian.” 

“Blount is right,” said Raleigh; “‘the Queen loves such 
marks of deference, and notices, as wanting in respect, those 
who, not arriving in her immediate attendance, may appear 
in their soiled and ruffled riding-dress. But look at Blount 
himself, ‘Tressilian, for the love of laughter, and see how his 
villanous tailor hath appareled him—in blue, green and crim- 
son, with carnation ribbons, and yellow roses in his shoes!” 

“Why, what wouldst thouhave ?” said Blount. “TI told 
the crossed-legged thief to do his best, and spare no cost; and 
methinks these things are gay enough—gayer than thine own— 
I'll be judged by Tressilian.” 

“T agree—lI agree,” said Walter Raleigh. “ Judge betwixt 
us, Tressilian, for the love of heaven!” 

Tressilian, thus appealed to, looked at them both, and was 
immediately sensible, at a single glance, that honest Blount 
had taken upon the tailor’s warrant the pied garments which 
he had chosen to make, and was as much embarrassed _ by the 
quantity of points and ribbons which garnished his dress, as 
a clown is in his holiday clothes; while the dress of Raleigh 
was a well-fancied and rich suit, which the wearer bore asa 
garb too well adapted to his elegant person to attract particular 
attention. Tressilian said, therefore, ‘‘’That Blount’s dress was 
finest, but Raleigh’s the best fancied.” 

Blount was satisfied with his decision. “I knew mine was 
finest,” he said; “if that knave Double-stitch had brought me 
home such a simple doublet as that of Raleigh’s, I would have 
beat his brains out with his own pressing-iron. Nay, if we 
must be fools, ever let us be fools of the first head, say I.” 

“But why gettest thou not on thy braveries, Tressilian?” 
said Raleigh. 

“I am excluded from my apartment by asilly mistake,” said 
Tressilian, ‘‘ and separated for the time from my baggage. I 
was about to seek thee, to beseech a share of thy lodging.” 

‘And welcome,” said Raleigh ; “it isanoble one. My Lord 
of Leicester has done us that kindness, and lodged us in princely 
fashion. If his courtesy be extorted reluctantly, it is at least 
extended far. I would advise you to tell your strait to the Earl’s 
chamberlain—you will have instant redress.” 

“Nay, it is not worth while, since you can spare me room,” 
replied Tressilian—“I would not be troublesome.—Has any 
one come hither with you?” 

“Oh, ay,” said Blount; ‘Varney and a whole tribe of 


304 KENILWORTH. 


Leicesterians, besides about a score of us honest Sussex folk, 
We are all, it seems, to receive the Queen at what they call the 
Gallery Tower, and witness some fooleries there; and then we’re 
to remain in attendance upon the Queen in the Great Hall 
—God bless the mark—while those who are now waiting upon 
her Grace get rid of their slough, and doff their riding-suits 
Heaven help me, if her Grace should speak to me, I shall never 
know what to answer!” 

‘‘ And what has detained them so long at Warwick?” said 
Tressilian, unwilling that their conversation should return to 
his own affairs. 

“** Such a succession of fooleries,” said Blount, ‘‘as were never 
seen at Bartholomew fair. We have had speeches and players, 
and dogs and bears, and men making monkeys, and women 
moppets, of themselves—I marvel the Queen could endure it. 
But ever and anon came in something of ‘ the lovely light of her 
gracious countenance,’ or some such trash. Ah! vanity makes 
a fool of the wisest. But come, let us on to this same Gallery 
Tower—though I see not what thou, Tressilian, canst do with 
thy riding-dress and boots.” 

‘““T will take my station behind thee, Blount,” said Tressilian, 
who saw that his friena’s unusual finery had taken a strong 
hold of his imagination; “thy goodly size and gay dress will 
cover my defects.” 

‘“ And so thou shalt, Edmund,” said Blount. “In faith, I 
am glad thou think’st my garb well-fancied, for all Mr. Witty- 
pate here; for, when one does a foolish thing, it is right to de 
it handsomely.” 

So saying, Blount cocked his beaver, threw out his leg, and 
marched manfully forward, as if at the head of his brigade of 
pikemen, ever and anon looking with complaisance ‘on his 
crimson stockings, and the huge yellow roses which blossomed 
onhisshoes. ‘Tressilian followed, wrapt in his own sad thoughts, 
and scarce minding Raleigh, whose quick fancy, amused by the 
awkward vanity of his respectable friend, vented itself in jests, 
which he whispered into Tressilian’s ear. 

In this manner they crossed the long bridge or tilt-yard, and 
took their station, with other gentlemen of quality, before the 
outer gate of the Gallery or Entrance Tower. The whole 
amounted to about forty persons, all selected as of the first 
rank under that of knighthood, and were disposed in double 
rows on either side of the gate, like a guard of honor, within 
the close hedge of pikes and partisans, which was formed by 
Leicester’s retainers, wearing his liveries. The gentlemen car: 
ried no arms save their swords and daggers, These gallants . 


KENILWORTH. 308 


were as gayly dressed as imagination could devise , and as the 
garb of the time permitted a great display of expensive magnifi- 
cence, nought was to be seen but velvet and cloth of gold and 
silver, ribbons, feathers, gems, and golden chains. In spite of 
his more serious subjects of distress, Tressilian could not help 
feeling that he, with his riding-suit, however handsome it might 
be, made rather an unworthy figure among these “ fierce vani- 
ties,’ and the rather because he saw that his dishabille was the 
subject of wonder among his own friends, and of scorn among 
the partisans of Leicester. 

We could not suppress this fact, thoughit may seem some- 
thing at variance with the gravity of Tressilian’s character ; but 
the truth is, that a regard for personal appearance is a species 
of self-love from which the wisest are not exempt, and to which 
the mind clings so instinctively, that not only the soldier ad- 
vancing to almost inevitable death, but even the doomed 
criminal who goes to certain execution, shows an anxiety to 
array his person to the best advantage. But this is a di- 
gression. 

It was the twilight of a summer night (gth July 1575), the 
sun haying for some time set, and all were in anxious expecta- 
tion of the Queen’s immediate approach. ‘The multitude had 
remained assembled for many hours, and their numbers were 
still rather on the increase. A profuse distribution of refresh- 
ments, together with roasted oxen, and barrels of ale set abroach 
in different places of the road, and kept the populace in perfect 
love and loyalty toward the Queen and her favorite, which 
might have somewhat abated had fasting been added to watch- 
ing. They passed away the time, therefore, with the usual pop- 
ular amusements of whooping, hallooing, shrieking, and play- 
ing rude tricks upon each other, forming the chorus of 
discordant sounds usual on such occasions, These prevailed 
all through the crowded roads and fields, and especially beyond 
the gate of the Chase, where the greater number of the common 
sort were stationed; when, all of a sudden, a single rocket was 
seen to shoot into the atmosphere, and at the instant, far heard 
over flood and field, the great bell of the Castle tolled. 

Immediately there was a pause of dead silence, succeeded 
by a deep hum of expectation, the united voice of many thou- 
sands, none of whom spoke above their breath; or, to use a 
singular expression, the whisper of an immense multitude. 

“* They come now forcertain,” said Raleigh. ‘‘ Tressilian, 
that sound is grand. We hear it from this distance as mari- 
ners, after a long voyage, hear, upon their night watch, the tide 
Tush upon some distant and unknown shore,” 


rt 


306 KENILWORTH, 


‘“ Mass !’’ answered Blount, “I hear it rather as I used to 
hear mine own kine lowing from the close of Wittens-west- 
lowe.” 

“He will assuredly graze presently,” said Raleigh to Tres- 
silian; “his thought is Pall of fat oxen and fertile meadows— 
he orows little better than one of his own beeves, and only be- 
comes grand when he is provoked to pushing and goring.” 

‘We shall have him at that presently,” said Tressilian, “ if 
you spare not your wit.” 

“Tush, I care not,” answered Raleigh; “ but thou too, Tres- 
silian hast turned a kind of owl, that flies only by night; hast 
exchanged thy songs for screechings, and good company for an 
ivy-tod.” 

‘But what manner of animal art thou thyself, Raleigh,” erie 
Tressilian, “that thou holdest us all so lightly ? ” 

4 Who, I?” replied Raleigh. “An eagle am J, that never 
will think of dull earth while there is a heaven to soar in, and 
a sun to gaze upon,” 

“Well bragged, by Saint Barnaby!” said Blount ; “ but, 
good Master Eagle, beware the cage, and beware the ‘fowler, 
Many birds have flown as high, that I have seen stuffed with 
straw, and hung up to scare ‘kites. But hark, what a dead 
silence hath fallen on them at once !” 

“The procession pauses,” said Raleigh, “at the gate of the 
Chase, where a sibyl, one of the fatdice, meets the Queen to 
tell her fortune. I saw the verses; there is a little savor in 
them, and her Grace has been already crammed full with such 
poetical compliments. She whispered to me during the Re- 
corder’s speech yonder, at Ford Mill, as she entered the liber- 
ties of Warwick, how she was ‘ pertesa barbare loquele.” 

“The Queen whispered to 42m /” said Blount, in a kind of 
soliloquy ; ‘“‘ Good God, to what will this world come !” 

His further meditations were interrupted by a shout of 
applause from the multitude, so tremendously vociferous, that 
the country echoed for miles round. The guards, thickly 
stationed upon the road by which the Queen was to advance, 
caught up the acclamation, which ran like wildfire to the Castle, 
and announced to all within that Queen Elizabeth had entered 
the Royal Chase of Kenilworth. The whole music of the Castle 
sounded at once, and a round of artillery, with a salvo of small 
arms, was discharged from the battlements ; but the noise of 
drum and trumpets, and even of the cannon themselves, was 
but faintly heard amidst the roaring and reiterated welcomes of 
the multitude. 

As the noise began to abate, a broad glare of light was seen 


KENILWORTH. 304 


to appear from the gate of the Park, and, broadening and 
brightening as it came nearer, advanced along the open and 
fair avenue that led toward the Gallery Tower; and which, 
as we have already noticed, was lined on either hand by the 
retainers of the Earl of Leicester, The word was passed along 
the line, “ The Queen! The Queen! Silence, and stand fast!” 
Onward came the cavalcade, iliuminated by two hundred thick 
waxen torches, in the hands of as many horsemen, which cast 
a light like that of broad day all around the procession, but 
especially on the principal group, of which the Queen herself, 
arrayed in the most splendid manner, and blazing with jewels, 
formed che central figure. She was mounted ona milk-white 
horse, which she reined with peculiar grace and dignity; and 
in the whole of her stately and noble carriage you saw the 
daughter of an hundred kings. 

The ladies of the court who rode beside her Majesty had 
taken especial care that their own external appearance should 
not be more glorious than their rank and occasion altogether 
demanded, so that no inferior luminary might appear to approach 
the orbit of royalty. But their personal charms, and the mag- 
nificence by which, under every prudential restraint, they were 
necessarily distinguished, exhibited them as the very flower of 
a realm so far famed for splendor and beauty. The magnifi- 
cence of the courtiers, free from such restraints as prudence im- 
posed on the ladies, was yet more unbounded. 

Leicester, who glittered like a golden image with jewels and 
cloth of goid, rode on her Majesty’s right hand, as well in 
quality of her host as of her Master of the Horse. The black 
steed which he mounted had not a single white hair on his 
body, and was one of the most renowned chargers in Europe, 
having been purchased by the Earl at large expense for this 
royal occasion. As the noble animal chafed at the slow pace 
of the procession, and, arching his stately neck, champed on 
the silver bits which restrained him, the foam flew from his 
mouth, and specked his well-formed limbs as if with spots of 
snow. The rider well became the high place which he held, 
and the proud steed which he bestrode ; for no man in Eng- 
land, or perhaps in Europe, was more perfect than Dudley in 
horsemanship, and all other exercises belonging to his quality, 
He was bare-headed, as were all the courtiers in the train ; and 
the red torchlight shone upon his long curled tresses of dark 
hair, and on his noble features, to the beauty of which even the 
severest criticism could only object the lordly fault, as it may 
be termed, of a forehead somewhat too high. On that proud 
evening, those features wore all the grateful! soliciiude ofa 


308 KENILWORTH. 


subject, to show himself sensible of the high honor which the 
Queen was conferring on him, and all the pride and satisfaction 
which became so glorious a moment. Yet, though neither eye 
nor feature betrayed aught but feeling which suited the occa- 
sion, some of the Earl’s personal attendants remarked, that he 
was unusually pale, and they expressed to each other their fear 
that he was taking more fatigue than consisted with his health, 

Varney followed close behind his master, as the principal 
esquire in waiting, and had charge of his lordship’s black velvet 
bonnet, garnished with a clasp of diamonds, and surmounted 
by a white plume. He kept his eye constantly on his master; 
and, for reasons with which the reader is not unacquainted, 
was, among Leicester’s numerous dependants, the one who was 
most anxious that his lord’s strength and resolution should 
carry him successfully through a day so agitating. For although 
Varney was one of the few—the very few moral monsters, who 
contrive to lull to sleep the remorse of their own bosoms, and 
are drugged into moral insensibility by atheism, as men in 
extreme agony are lulled by opium, yet he knew that in the 
breast of his patron there was already awakened the fire that is 
never quenched, and that his lard felt, amid all the pomp and 
magnificence we have described, the gnawing of the worm that 
dieth not. Still, however, assured as Lord Leicester stood, by 
Varney’s own intelligence, that his Countess labored under an 
indisposition which formed an unanswerable apology to the 
Queen for her not appearing at Kenilworth, there was little 
danger, his wily retainer thought, that a man so ambitious 
would betray himself by giving way to any external weakness. 

The train, male and female, who attended immediately upon 
the Queen’s person, were of course of the bravest and the fair- 
est,—the highest born nobles, and the wisest counselors, of 
that distinguished reign, to repeat whose names were but to 
weary the reader. Behind came a long crown of knights and 
gentlemen, whose rank and birth, however distinguished, were - 

thrown into shade, as their persons into the rear of a procession, 
whose front was of such august majesty. 

Thus marshaled, the cavalcade approached the Gallery 
Tower, which formed, as we have often observed, the extreme 
barrier of the Castle. 

It was now the part of the huge porter to step forward; but 
the lubbard was so overwhelmed with confusion of spirit,—the 
contents of one immense black jack of double ale which he had 
just drunk to quicken his memory, having treacherously con- 
fused the brain it was intended to clear,—thut he only groaned 
piteously, and remained sitting on his stone seat; and the 


KENILWORTR. 309 


Quzen would have passed on without greeting, had not the 
gigantic warder’s secret ally, Flibbertigibbet, who lay perdue 
behind him, thrust a pin into the rear of the short femoral gar- 
ment which we elsewhere described. 

The porter uttered a sort of yell, which came not amiss into 
his part, started up with his club, and dealt a sound douse or 
two on each side of him; and then, like a coach-horse pricked 
by the spur, started off at once into the full career of his ad- 
dress, ana by dint of active prompting on the part of Dickie 
Sludge, delivered, in sounds of gigantic intonation, a speech 
which may be thus abridged ;—the reader being to suppose that 
the first lines were addressed to the throng who approached the 
gateway ; the conclusion, at the approach of the Queen, upon 
sight of whom, as struck by some heavenly vision, the gigantic 
warder dropped his club, resigned his keys, and gave open way 
to the Goddess of the night, and all her magnificent train. 


“What stir, what turmoil, have we for the nones ? 
Stand back, my masters, or beware your bones $ 
Sirs, I’m a warder, and no man of straw, 

My voice keeps order, and my club gives law, 

Yet soft—nay, stay—what vision have we here? 

What dainty darling’s this >—what peerless peer ? 

What loveliest face, that loving ranks unfold, 

Like brightest diamond chased in purest gold ? 

Dazzled and blind, mine office I forsake, 

My club, my key. My knee, my homage take, 

Bright paragon; pass on in joy and bliss ;— 

Beshrew the gate that opes not wide at such a sight at this!” * 


Elizabeth received most graciously the homage of the Her- 
culean porter, and, bending her head to him in requital, passed 
through his guarded tower, from the top of which was poured 
a clamorous blast of warlike music, which was replied to by 
other bands of minstrelsy placed at different points on the 
Castle walls, and by others again stationed in the Chase ; while 
the tones of the one, as they yet vibrated on the echoes, were 
caught up and answered by new harmony from different 
quarters. 

Amidst these bursts of music, which, as if the work of en- 
chantment, seemed now close at hand, now softened by dis- 
tant space, now wailing so low and sweet as if that distance 
were gradually prolonged until only the last lingering strains 
could reach the ear, Queen Elizabeth crossed the Gallery 

* This is an imitation of Gascoigne’s verses spoken by the Herculean 
porter, as mentioned in the text. The original may be found in the repub- 


lication of the Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth, by the same author, in the 
History of Kenilworth, Chiswick, 1821. aes 


310 KENILWORTH. 


Tower, and came upon the long bridge, which extended from 
thence to Mortimer’s Tower, and which was already as light 
as day, so many torches had been fastened to the palisades on 
either side. Most of the nobles here alighted, and sent their 
horses to the neighboring village of Kenilworth, following the 
Queen on foot, as did the gentlemen who had stood in array 
to receive her at the Gallery Tower. 

On this occasion, as at different times during the evening, 
Raleigh addressed himself to Tressilian, and was not a little 
surprised at his value and unsatisfactory answers ; which, 
joined to his leaving his apartment without any assigned reason, 
appearing in an undress when it was likely to be offensive to 
the Queen, and some other symptoms of irregularity which he 
thought he discovered, led him to doubt whether his friend did 
not labor under some temporary derangement. 

Meanwhile, the Queen had no sooner stepped on the bridge 
than a new spectacle was provided; for as soon as the music 
gave signal that she was so far advanced, a raft, so disposed as 
to resemble a small floating island, illuminated bya great variety 
of torches, and surrounded by floating pageants formed to rep: 
resent sea-horses, on which sat Tritons, Nereids, and other 
fabulous deities of the seas and rivers, made its appearance 
upon the lake,.and issuing from behind a small heronry where 
it had been concealed, floated gently toward the further end of 
the bridge. 

On the islet appeared a beautiful woman, clad in a watchet- 
colored silken mantle, bound with a broad girdle, inscribed 
with characters like the phylacteries of the Hebrews. Her feet 
and arms were bare, but her wrists and ankles were adorned 
with gold bracelets of uncommon size. Amidst her long silky 
black hair she wore a crown or chaplet of artificial mistleto, 
and bore in her hand a rod of ebony tipped with silver. ‘Two 
Nymphs attended on her, dressed in the same antique and 
mystical guise. 

The pageant was so weil managed, that this Lady of the 
Floating Island, having performed her voyage with much pic- 
turesque effect, landed at Mortimer’s Tower with her two 
attendants, just as Elizabeth presented herself before that out 
work. ‘The stranger then, in a well-penned speech, announced 
herself as that famous Lady of the Lake, renowned in the 
stories of King Arthur, who had nursed the youth of the 
redoubted Sir Lancelot, and whose beauty had proved too 
powerful both for the wisdom and the spells of the mighty 
Merlin, Since that early period she had remained possessed 
of her crystal dominions, she said, despite the various men of 


KENILWORTH. sy 


fame and might by whom Kenilworth had been successively 
tenanted. ‘The Saxons, the Danes, the Normans, the Saint- 
lowes, the Clintons, the Mountforts, the Mortimers, the Plan- 
tagenets, great though they were in arms and magnifience, had 
never, she said, caused her to raise her head from the waters 
which hid her crystal palace. Buta greater than all these great 
names had now appeared, and she came in homage and duty 
to welcome the peerless Elizabeth to all sport, which the Castle 
and its environs, which lake or land, could afford. 

The Queen received this address also with great courtesy, 
and made answer in raillery, “ We thought this lake had be- 
longed to our own dominions, fair dame ; but since so famed a 
lady claims it for hers, we will be glad at some other time to 
have further communing with you touching our joint interests.” 

With this gracious answer the Lady of the Lake vanished, 
and Arion who was amongst the maritime deities, appeared 
upon his dolphin. But Lambourne, who had taken upon him 
the part in the absence of Wayland, being chilled with remain- 
ing immersed in an element to which he was not friendly, 
having never got his speech by heart, and not having, like the 
porter, the advantage of a prompter, paid it off with impudence, 
tearing off his vizard and swearing, “‘ Cogs bones ! he was none 
of Arion or Orion either, but honest Mike Lambourne, that 
had been drinking her Majesty’s health from morning till mid- 
night, and was come to bid her heartily welcome to Kenilworth 
Castle.” 

This unpremeditated buffoonery answered the purpose prob- 
ably better than the set speech would have done. The Queen 
laughed heartily, and swore (in her turn) that he had made the 
best speech she had heard that day. Lambourne who instantly 
saw his jest had saved his bones, jumped onshore, gave his dol- 
phin a kick, and declared he would never meddle with fish 
again, except at dinner. 

At the same time that the Queen was about to enter the 
Castle, that memorable discharge of fireworks, by water and 
land, took place, which Master Laneham, formerly introduced 
to the reader, has strained all his eloquence to describe. 

* Such,” says the Clerk of the Council-chamber door, “ was 
the blaze of burning darts, the gleams of stars coruscant, the 
streams and hail of fiery sparks, lightnings of wildfire, and 
flight-shot of thunder-bolts, with continuance, terror, and 
vehemency, that the heavens thundered, the waters surged, 
and the earth shook ; and, for my part, hardy as I am, it made 
me very vengeably afraid.” * 

* Note I, Entertainments at Kenilworth, 


312 KENILWORTH. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIRST. 


Nay, this is matter for the month of March, 
When hares are maddest. Either speak in reason, 
Giving cold argument the wall of passion, 
Or I break up the court. 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 


Iris by no means our purpose to detail minutely all the 
princely festivities of Kenilworth, after the fashion of Master 
Robert Laneham, whom we quoted in the conclusion of the last 
chapter. It is sufficient to say, that under discharge of the 
splendid fireworks, which we have borrowed Laneham’s elo- 
quence to describe, the Queen entered the base-court of Kenil- 
worth through Mortimer’s Tower, and moving on through 
pageants of heathen gods and heroes of antiquity, who offer 
gifts and compliments on the bended knee, at length found her 
way to the great hall of the Castle, gorgeously hung for her re- 
ception with the richest silken tapestry, misty with perfumes, 
and sounding to strains of soft and delicious music. From the 
highly-carved oaken roof hung a superb chandelier of gilt bronze, 
formed like a spread eagle, whose outstretched wings sup- 
ported three male and three female figures, grasping a pair of 
branches in each hand. ‘The hall was thus illuminated by 
twenty-four torches of wax. At the upper end of the splendid 
apartment was a state canopy, overshadowing a royal throne, 
and beside was a door which opened to a long suite of apart- 
ments, decorated with the utmost magnificence for the Queen 
and her ladies, whenever it should be her pleasure to be 
private. 

The Earl of Leicester having handed the Queen up to her 
throne and seated her there, knelt down before her, and kiss- 
ing the hand which she held out, with an air in which romantic 
and respectful gallantry was happily mingled with the air of 
loyal devotion, he thanked her, in terms of the deepest grati- 
tude, for the highest honor which a sovereign could render to 
a subject. So handsome did he look when kneeling before her 
that Elizabeth was tempted to prolong the scene a little longer 
than there was, strictly speaking, necessity for; and ere she 
raised him, she passed her hand over his head, so near, as 
almost to touch his long curled and perfumed air, and with a 


KENILWORTH 313 


movement of fondness, that seemed to intimate she would, if 
she dared, have made the motion a slight caress.™ 

She at length raised him, and, standing beside the throne, 
he explained to her the various preparations which had been 
made for her amusement and accommodation, all of which 
received her prompt and gracious approbation. The Earl then 
prayed her Majesty for permission, that he himself, and the 
‘nobles who had been in attendance upon her during the 
journey, might retire for a few minutes, and put themselves 
into a guise more fitting for dutiful attendance, during which 
space, those gentlemen of worship (pointing to Varney, Blount, 
Tressilian, and others), who had already put themselves into 
fresh attire, would have the honor of keeping her presence- 
chamber. 

“Be it so, my lord,” answered the Queen; “you could 
manage a theatre well, who can thus command a double set of 
actors. For ourselves, we will receive your courtesies this 
evening but clownishly, since it is not our purpose to change 
our riding attire, being in effect something fatigued with a 
journey which the concourse of our good people hath rendered 
slow, through the love they have shown our person hath, at the 
same time, made it delightful.” 

Leicester, having received this permission, retired accord- 
ingly, and was followed by those nobles who had attended the 
Queen to Kenilworth in person. The gentlemen who had 
preceded them, and were of course dressed for the solemnity, 
remained in attendance. But being most of them of rather 
inferior rank, they remained at an awful distance from the 
throne which Elizabeth occupied. The Queen’s sharp eye soon 
distinguished Raleigh amongst them, with one or two others 
who were personally known to her, and she instantly made 
them sign to approach, and accosted them very graciously. 
Raleigh, in particular, the adventure of whose cloak, as well as 
the incident of the verses, remained on her mind, was very 
graciously received; and to him she most frequently applied 
for information concerning the names and rank of those who 


* To justify what may be considered as a high-colored picture, the 
author quotes the original of the courtly and shrewd Sir James Melville, 
being then Queen Mary’s envoy at the court of London. 

“* Twas required,” says Sir James, ‘‘to stay till I had seen him made 
Earle of Leicester, and Baron of Denbigh, with great solemnity; herself 
(Elizabeth) helping to put on his ceremonial, he sitting on his knees before 
her keeping a great gravity and a discreet behavior; but she could not re- 
frain from putting her hand to his neck to kittle (¢ ¢. tickle) him, smilingly, 
the French Ambassador and I standing beside her.”—-MELVILLE’s Mes 
mors, Bannatyne Edition, p. 120. 


314 KENILWORTH. 


were in presence. These he communicated concisely, and not 
without some traits of humorous satire, by which Elizabeth 
seemed much amused. ‘ And who is yonder clownish fellow ? ”’ 
she said, looking at Tressilian, whose soiled dress on this occa: 
sion greatly obscured his good mien. 

‘A poet, if it please your Grace,” replied Raleigh. 

“TI might have guessed that from his careless garb,” said 
Elizabeth. ‘I have known some poets so thoughtless as to 
throw their cloaks into gutters.” 

“It must have been when the sun dazzled both their eyes 
and their judgment,” answered Raleigh. 

Elizabeth smiled and proceeded, ‘“‘I asked that slovenly 
fellow’s name, and you only told me his profession,” 

“Tressilian is his name,” said Raleigh, with internal reluc- 
tance, for he foresaw nothing favorable to his friend from the 
manner in which she took notice of him, 

“ Tressilian !’? answered Elizabeth. ‘Oh, the Menelaus of 
dur romance! Why, he has dressed himself in a guise that 
will go farto exculpate his fair and false Helen. And where is 
Farnham, or whatever his name is—my Lord of Leicester’s man, 
I mean—the Paris of this Devonshire tale?” 

With still greater reluctance Raleigh named and pointed out 
to her Varney, for whom the tailor had done all that art could 
perform in making his exterior agreeable; and who, if he had 
not grace, had a sort of tact and habitual knowledge of breeding, 
which came in place of it. 

The Queen turned her eyes from the one to the other—‘“ I 
doubt,” she said, ‘this same poetical Master Tressilian, who 
is too learned, I warrant me, to remember what presence he was 
to appear in, may be one of those of whom Geoffrey Chaucer 
says wittily, the wisest clerks are not the wisest men. I remem- 
ber that Varney is a smooth-tongued varlet. I doubt:this fair 
run-away hath had reasons for breaking her faith.” 

To this Raleigh durst make no answer, aware how little he 
should benefit Tressilian by contradicting the Queen’s senti- 
ments, and not at all certain on the whole, whether the best 
thing that could befall him, would not be that she should put 
an end at once by her authority to this ‘affair, upon which it 
seemed to him Tressilian’s thoughts were fixed with unavailing 
and distressing pertinacity. As these reflections passed through 
his active brain, the lower door of the hall opened, and Leicester, 
accompanied by several of his kinsmen, and of the nobles who 
had embraced his faction, re-entered the Castle-hali. 

The favorite Earl was now appareled all in white, his 
shoes being of white velvet; his understocks (or stockings) of 


KENILWORTH. 318 


knit silk ; his upper stocks of white velvet, lined with cloth of 
silver, which was shown at the slashed part of the middle thigh; 
his doublet of cloth of silver the close jerkin of white velvet, 
embroidered with silver and seed-pearl, his girdle and the 
scabbard of his sword of white velvet with golden buckles ; his 
poniard and sword hilted and mounted with gold; and over 
alla rich loose robe of white satin, with a border of golden 
embroidery a foot in breadth. The collar of the Garter, and 
the azure Garter itself around his knee, completed the appoint- 
ments of the Earl of Leicester; which were so well matched 
by his fair stature, graceful gesture, fine proportion of body, 
and handsome countenance, that at that moment he was 
admitted by all who saw him, as the goodliest person whom 
they had ever looked upon. Sussex and the other nobles were 
also richly attired, but in point of splendor and gracefulness of 
mien, Leicester far exceeded them all. 

Elizabeth received him with great complacency. ‘We have 
one piece of royal justice,” she said, “to attend to. It is 
a piece of justice, too, which interests us as a woman, as weil 
in the character of mother and guardian of the English people.” 

An involuntary shudder came over Leicester, as he bowed 
low, expressive of his readiness to receive her royal commands 5 
and a similar cold fit came over Varney, whose eyes (seldom 
during that evening removed from his patron) instantly 
perceived, from the change in his looks, slight as that was, of 
what the Queen was speaking. But Leicester had wrought his 
resolution up to the point which, in his crooked policy, he 
judged necessary; and when Elizabeth added—“ It is of the 
matter of Varney and Tressilian we speak—is the lady here, 
my lord?” his answer was ready ;—“ Gracious madam, she is 
not.” 

Elizabeth bent her brows and compressed ber lips. ‘Our 
orders were strict and positive, my lord,” was her answer 

“And should have been obeyed, good my liege,” replied 
Leicester, ‘‘ had they been expressed in the form of the lightest 
wish. But—Varney, step forward—this gentleman will inform 
your Grace of the cause why the lady” (he could not force his 
rebellious tongue to utter the words—Azs wife) ‘cannot attend 
on your royal presence.” 

Varney advanced, and pleaded with readiness, what indeed 
he firmly believed, the absolute incapacity of the party (for 
neither did he dare, in Leicester’s presence, term her his wife) 
to wait on her Grace. 

‘“‘ Here,” said he, “are attestations from a most learned 
physician, whose skill and honor are well known to my good 


316 KENILWORTH. 


Lord of Leicester; and from an bonest and devout Protestant, 
a man of credit and substance, one Anthony Foster, the gentle- 
man in whose house she is at present bestowed, that she now 
labors under an illness which altogether unfits her for such 
a journey as betwixt this Castle and the neighborhood of 
Oxford.” 

“This alters the matter,” said the Queen, taking the certif- 
icates in her hand, and glancing at their contents—‘“ Let 
Tressilian come forward.—Master Tressilian, we have much 
sympathy for your situation, the rather that you seem to have 
set your heart deeply on this Amy Robsart, or Varney. Our 
power, thanks to God, and the willing obedience of a loving 
people, is worth much, but there are some things which it 
cannot compass. We cannot, for example, command the affec- 
tions of a giddy young girl, or make her love sense and learn- 
ing better than a courtier’s fine doublet; and we cannot con- 
trol sickness, with which it seems this lady is afflicted, who may 
not, by reason of such infirmity, attend our court here, as we 
had required her to do. Here are the testimonials of the 
physician who hath her under his charge, and the gentleman in 
whose house she resides, so setting forth.” 

“Under your Majesty’s favor,” said Tressilian, hastily, and, 
in his alarm for the consequence of the imposition practiced 
on the Queen, forgetting, in part at least, his own promise to 
Amy, ‘‘ these certificates speak not the truth.” 

‘How, sir!” said the Queen—“ Impeach my Lord of 
Leicester’s veracity! But you shall have a fair hearing. In 
our presence the meanest of our subjects shall be heard against 
the proudest, and the least known against the most favored ; 
therefore you shall be heard fairly, but beware you speak not 
without a warrant! ‘Take these certificates in your own hand; 
look at them carefully, and say manfully if you impugn the 
truth of them, and upon what evidence.” 

As the Queen spoke, his promise and all its consequences 
rushed on the mind of the unfortunate Tressilian, and while it 
controled his natural inclination to pronounce that a falsehood 
which he knew from the evidence of his senses to be untrue, 
gave an indecision and irresolution to his appearance and 
utterance, which made strongly against him in the mind of 
Elizabeth, as well as of all who beheld him. He turned the 
papers over and over, as if he had been an idiot, incapable of 
comprehending their contents. The Queen’s impatience began 
to become visible.—‘‘ You are a scholar, sir,” she said, “and 
of some note, as I have heard ; yet you seem wondrous slow in 


KENILWORTH. 317 


reading text hand. How say you, are these certificates true or 
no?” 

“ Madam,” said Tressilian, with obvious embarrassment 
and hesitation, anxious to avoid admitting evidence which he 
might afterward have reason to confute, yet equally desirous to 
keep his word to Amy, and to give her, as he had promised, 
space to plead her own cause in her own way—‘‘ Madam— 
Madam, your Grace calls on me to admit evidence which ought 
to be proved valid by those who found their defence upon 
them.” 

“Why, Tressilian, thou art critical as well as poetical,” said 
the Queen, bending on him a brow of displeasure ; ‘‘ methinks 
these writings, being produced in the presence of the noble 
Earl to whom this Castle pertains, and his honor being 
appealed to as the guarantee of their authenticity, might be 
evidence enough for thee. But since thou lists to be so formal 
—Varney, or rather my Lord of Leicester, for the affair be- 
comes yours ” (these words, though spoken at random, thrilled 
through the Earl’s marrow and bones), “what evidence have 
you as touching these certificates ?”’ 

Varney hastened to reply, preventing Leicester,—‘“ So 
please your Majesty, my young Lord of Oxford, who is here in 
presence, knows Master Anthony Foster’s hand and _ his char- 
acter.” 

The Earl of Oxford, a young unthrift, whom Foster had 
more than once accommodated with loans on usurious interest, 
acknowledged, on this appeal, that he knew him asa wealthy 
and independant franklin, supposed to be worth much money, 
and verified the certificate produced to be his handwriting. 

“And who speaks to the Doctor’s certificate ?” said the 
Queen. ‘ Alasco, methinks, is his name.” 

Masters, her Majesty’s physician (not the less willingly that 
he remembered his repulse from Say’s Court, and thought that 
his present testimony might gratify Leicester, and mortify the 
Earl of Sussex and his faction), acknowledged he had more 
than once consulted with Doctor Alasco, and spoke of him asa 
man of extraordinary learning and hidden acquirements, though 
not altogether in the regular course of practice. The Earl of 
Huntingdon, Lord Leicester’s brother-in-law, and the old Count- 
ess of Rutland, next sang his praises, and both remembered 
the thin beautiful Italian hand in which he was went to write 
his receipts, and which corresponded to the certificate produced 
as his. 

*« And now, I trust, Master Tressilian, this matter is ended,” 
said the Queen, ‘We will do something ere the night is older 


318 KENILWORTH. 


to reconcile old Sir Hugh Robsart to the match. You have 
done your duty something more than boldly; but we were no 
woman had we not compassion for the wounds which true love 
deals ; so we forgive your audacity, and your uncleansed boots 
withal, which have well-nigh overpowered my Lord of Leicester’s 
perfumes.” 

So spoke Elizabeth, whose nicety of scent was one of the 
characteristics of her organization, as appeared long afterward 
when she expelled Essex from her presence, on a charge against 
his boots similar to that which she now expressed against those 
of Tressilian. 

But Tressilian had by this time cotlected himself, astonished 
as he had at first been by the audacity of the falsehood so 
feasibly supported, and placed in array against the evidence of 
his own eyes. He rushed forward, kneeled down, and caught 
the Queen by the skirt of the robe. ‘As you are Christian 
woman,” he said, “madam, as you are crowned Queen, to do 
equal justice among your subjects—as you hope yourself to 
have fair hearing (which God grant you) at that last bar at 
which we must all plead, grant me one small request! Decide 
not this matter so hastily. Give me but twenty-four hours’ 
interval, and IJ will, at the end of that brief space, produce 
evidence which will show to demonstration, that these certifi- 
cates, which state this unhappy lady to be now ill at ease in 
Oxfordshire, are false as hell!” 

“ Let go my train, sir!” said Elizabeth, who was startled at 
his vehemence, though she had too much of the lion in her to 
fear; “the fellow must be distraught—that witty knave, my 
godson Harrington, must have him into nis rhymes of Orlando 
Furioso !—And yet, by this light, there is something strange in 
the vehemence of his demand.—Speak, Tressilian ; what wilt 
thou do if, at the end of these four-and-twenty hours, thou 
canst not confute a fact so solemnly proved as this lady’s ill- 
ness ?” 

“*T will lay down my head on the block,” answered Tres- 
silian. 

‘““Pshaw!” replied the Queen. ‘ God’s light ! thou speak’st 
like a fool. What head falls in England but by just sentence 
of English law ?—I ask thee, man—if thou hast sense to under- 
stand me—wilt thou, if thou shalt fail in this improbable attempt 
of thine, render me a good and sufficient reason why thou dost 
undertake it?” 

Tressilian paused, and again hesitated ; because he felt con< 
vinced that if, within the interval demanded, Amy should 
become reconciled to her husband, he would in that case do her 


KENILWORTH. 31g 


the worst offices by again ripping up the whole circumstances 
before Elizabeth, and showing how that wise and jealous prin- 
cess had been imposed upon by false testimonials. The con- 
sciousness of this dilemma renewed his extreme embarrassment 
of look, voice, and manner; he hesitated, looked down, and on 
the Queen repeated her question with a stern voice and flash- 
ing eye, he admitted with faltering words, “ That it might be~ 
he could not positively—that is, in certain events—explain the 
reasons and grounds on which he acted.” 

*“‘ Now, by the soul of King Henry,” said the Queen, “ this 
is either moonstruck madness, or very knavery !—-Seest thou, 
Raleigh, thy friend is far too Pindaric for this presence. Have 
him away, and make us quit of him, or it shall be the worse for 
him; for his flights are too unbridled for any place but Par- 
nassus, or Saint Luke’s Hospital. But come back instantly 
thyself, when he is placed under fitting restraint—We wish we 
had seen the beauty which could make such havoc in a wise 
man’s train.” 

Tressilian was again endeavoring to address the Queen, 
when Raleigh, in obedience to the orders he had received, inter- 
fered, and, with Blount’s assistance, half led half forced him 
out of the presence chamber, where he himself indeed began to 
think his appearance did his cause more harm than good. 

When they had attained the antechamber, Raleigh entreated 
Blount to see Tressilian safely conducted into the apartments 
allotted to the Earl of Sussex’s followers, and, if necessary, re- 
commended that a guard should be mounted on him. 

“This extravagant passion,” he said, ‘‘ and, as it would seem 
the news of the lady’s illness, has utterly wrecked hisexcellent 
judgment. But it will pass away if he be kept quiet. Only 
let him break forth again at no rate; for he is already far in 
her Highness’s displeasure, and should she be again provoked 
she will find for him a worse place of confinement, and sterner 
keepers.” 

“1 judged as much as that he was mad,” said Nicholas 
Blount, looking down upon his own crimson stockings and yel- 
low roses, “‘ whenever I saw him wearing yonder damned boots, 
which stunk so in her nostrils.—I will but see him stowed, and 
be back with you presently.—But, Walter, aid the Queen ask 
who I was ?—methought she glanced an eye at me.” 

““Twenty—twenty eye-glances she sent, and [J told her all 
how thou wert a brave soldier, and a But for God’s sake get 
off Tressilian !” 

“*T will—I will,” said Blount; “but methinks this court- 
haunting, is no such bad pastime, after all. We shall rise by 


320 &KENILWORTH. 
it, Walter, my brave lad. Thou saidst I was a good soldier, 
and a—What besides, dearest Walter?” 

“ An all unutterable-—codshead.—For God’s sake begone ! ” 

Tressilian, without further resistance or expostulation, fol 
lowed, or rather suffered himself to be conducted by Blount ta 
Raleigh’s lodging, where he was formally installed into a small 
truckle-bed, placed in a wardrobe, and designed for a domestic. 
He saw but too plainly, that no remonstrances would avail to 
procure the help or sympathy of his friends, until the lapse of 
the time for which he had piedged himself to remain inactive, 
should enable him either to explain the whole circumstances to 
them, or remove from him every pretext or desire of further 
interference with the fortunes of Amy, by her having found 
means to place herself in a state of reconciliation with her 
husband. 

With great difficulty, and only by the most patient and mild 
remonstrances with Blount, he escaped the disgrace and morti- 
fication of having two of Sussex’s stoutest yeomen quartered in 
his apartment. At last, however, when Nicholas had seen him 
fairly deposited in his truckle-bed, and had bestowed one or 
two hearty kicks, and as hearty curses, on the boots, which, in 
his lately acquired spirit of foppery, he considered as a strong 
symptom, if not the cause, of his friend’s malady, he contented 
himself with the modified measure of locking the door on the 
unfortunate Tressilian ; whose gallant and disinterested efforts 
to save a female who had treated him with ingratitude, thus 
terminated for the present, in the displeasure of his Sovereign, 
and the conviction of his friends that he was little better than 
a madman. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND. 


The wisest Sovereigns err like private men, 
And royal hand has sometimes laid the sword 
Of chivalry upon a worthless shoulder, 
Which better had been branded by the hangman. 
What then ?—Kings do their best—and they and we 
‘Must answer for the intent, and not the event. 

OLD PLay. 


“Ir is a melancholy matter,” said the Queen, when Tres: 
silian was withdrawn, “to see a wise and learned man’s wit 
thus pitifully unsettled. Yet this public display of his imper- 
fection of brain plainly shows us that his supposed injury and 


KENILWORTH. 324 
accusation were fruitless ; and therefore, my lord of Leicester, 
we remember your suit formerly made to us in behalf of your 
faithful servant Varney, whose good gifts and fidelity, as they 
are useful to you, ought to have due reward from us, knowing 
well that your lordship, and all you have, are so earnestly de- 
voted to our service. And we render Varney the honor more 
especially that we are a guest, and we fear a chargeable and 
troublesome one, under your lordship’s roof ; and also for the 
satisfaction of the good old Knight of Devon, Sir Hugh Robsart, 
whose daughter he hath married; and we trust the especial 
mark of grace which we are about to confer may reconcile him 
to his son-in-law.—Your sword, my lord of Leicester.” 

The Earl unbuckled his sword, and taking it by the point, 
presented on bended knee the hilt to Elizabeth. 

She took it slowly, drew it from the scabbard, and while the 
ladies who stood around turned away their eyes with real or 
affected shuddering, she noted with a curious eye the high pol 
ish and rich damasked ornaments upon the glittering blade. 

“‘ Had I been a man,” she said, ‘ methinks none of my an- 
cestors would have loved a good sword better. As it is with 
me, I like to look on one, and could, like the fairy of whom I 
have read in some Italian rhymes—were my godson Harrington 
here he could tell me the passage *—even trim my hair and ar- 
range my head-gear in such a steel mirror as this is.—Richard 
* Varney, come forth, and kneel down, In the name of God and 
Saint George, we dub thee knight! Be Faithful, Brave, and 
Fortunate. Arise, Sir Richard Varney.” 

Varney arose and retired, making a deep obeisance to the 
Sovereign who had done him so much honor. 

“The buckling of the spur, and what other rites remain,” 
said the Queen, ‘“‘ may be finished to-morrow in the chapel ; for 
we intend Sir Richard Varney a companion in his honors. And 
as we must not be partial in conferring such distinction, we 
mean on this matter to confer with our cousin of Sussex.” 

That noble Earl, who, since his arrival at Kenilworth, and 
indeed since the commencement of this Progress, had found 
himself in a subordinate situation to Leicester, was now wear- 
ing a heavy cloud on his brow—a circumstance which had not 
escaped the Queen, who hoped to appease his discontent, and 
to follow out her system of balancing policy by a mark of pecu- 
liar favor, the more gratifying as it was tendered at a moment 
when his rival’s triumph appeared to be complete. 

At the summons of Queen Elizabeth, Sussex hastily ap- 


* Note J. Italian Rhymer, 


322 KENILWORTH. 


proached her person; and being asked on which of his follow 
ers, being a gentleman and of merit, he would wish the honot 
of knighthood to be conferred, he answered, with more sin- 
cerity than policy, that he would have ventured to speak for 
Tressilian, to whom he conceived he owed his own life, and 
who was a distinguished soldier and scholar, besides a man of 
unstained lineage, “only,” he said, “he feared the events of 
that night” And then he stopped. 

“IT am glad your lordship is thus considerate,” said Eliza- 
beth; “the events of this night would make us, in the eyes of 
our subjects, as mad as this poor brain-sick gentleman himself 
—for we ascribe his conduct to no malice—should we choose 
this moment to do him grace.” 

“In that case,” said the Earl of Sussex, somewhat discoun- 
tenanced, “your Majesty will allow me to name my master of 
the horse, Master Nicholas Blount, a gentleman of fair estate 
and ancient name, who has served your Majesty both in Scot- 
land and Ireland, and brought away bloody marks on his per- 
son, all honorably taken and requited.” 

The Queen could not help shrugging her shoulders slightly 
even at this second suggestion; and the Duchess of Rutland, 
who read in the Queen’s manner that she had expected Sussex 
would have named Raleigh, and thus would have enabled her 
to gratify her own wish while she honored his recommendation, 
only waited the Queen’s assent to what he had proposed, and 
then said, that she hoped, since these two high nobles had 
been each permitted to suggest a candidate for the honors of 
chivalry, she, in behalf of the ladies in presence, might have a 
similar indulgence. 

‘J were no woman to refuse you such a boon,” said the 
Queen, smiling. 

“Then,” pursued the Duchess, “in the name of these fair 
ladies present, I request your Majesty to confer the rank of 
knighthood on Walter Raleigh, whose birth, deeds of arms, and 
promptitude to serve our sex with sword or pen, deserve such 
distinction from us all.” 

‘““Gramercy, fair ladies,’ said Elizabeth, smiling, “‘ your 
boon is granted, and the gentle squire Lack-Cloak shall become 
the good knight Lack-Cloak, at your desire. Let the two as- 
pirants for the honor of chivalry step forward.” 

Blount was not as yet returned from seeing Tressilian, as he 
conceived safely disposed of; but Raleigh came forth, and 
kneeling down, received at the hand of the Virgin Queen that 
title of honor, which was never conferred on a more distin 
guished or more illustrious object, 


KENILWORTH, 323 


Shortly afterward Nicholas Blount entered, and, hastily 
apprised by Sussex, who met him at the door of the hall, of 
the Queen’s gracious purpose regarding him, he was desired to 
advance toward the throne. It is a sight sometimes seen, and 
it is both ludicrous and pitiable, when an honest man of plain 
common sense is surprised by the coquetry of a pretty woman, 
or any other cause, into those frivolous fopperies which only 
sit well upon the youthful, the gay, and those to whom long 
practice has rendered them a second nature. Poor Blount was 
in this situation. His head was already giddy from a con- 
sciousness of unusual finery, and the supposed necessity of 
suiting his manners to the gayety of his dress; and now this 
sudden view of promotion altogether completed the conquest 
of the newly inhaled spirit of foppery over his natural disposi- 
tion, and converted a plain, nonest, awkward man into a cox- 
comb of a new and most ridiculous kind. 

The knight-expectant advanced up the hall, the whole 
length of which he had unfortunately to traverse, turning out 
his toes with so much zeal, that he presented his leg at every 
step with its broad side foremost, so that he greatly resembled 
an old-fashioned table-knife with a curved point, when seen 
sideways. The rest of his gait was in proportion to this un- 
happy amble; and the implied mixture of bashful fear and 
seli-satisfaction was so unutterably ridiculous, that Leicester’s 
friends did not suppress a titter, in which many of Sussex’s 
partisans were unable to resist joining, though ready to eat 
their nails with mortification. Sussex himself lost all patience, 
and could not forbear whispering into the ear of his friend, 
“ Curse thee! canst thou not walk like a man and a soldier?” 
an interjection which only made honest Blount start and stop, 
until a glance at his yellow roses and crimson stockings re- 
stored his self-confidence, when on he went at the same pace 
as before. | 

The Queen conferred on poor Blount the honor of knight- 
hood with a marked sense of reluctance. That wise Princess 
was fully aware of the propriety of using great circumspection 
and economy in bestowing those titles of honor, which the 
Stewarts, who succeeded to her throne, distributed with an im- 
prudent liberality, which greatly diminished their value. 
Blount had no sooner arisen and retired than she turned to the 
Duchess of Rutland, “Our woman wit,” she said, ‘‘ dear Rut- 
land, is sharper than that of those proud things in doublet and 
hose. Seest thou, out of these three knights, thine is the only 
true metal to stamp chivalry’s imprint upon ?” 


324 KENILWORTH. 


“ Sir Richard Varney, surely—the friend of my lord of 
Leicester—surely 4e has merit,” replied the Duchess. 

“Varney has a sly countenance, and a smooth tongue,” 
replied the Queen. ‘I fear me he will prove a knave—but the 
promise was of ancient standing. My lord of Sussex must 
have lost his own wits, I think, to recommend to us first a 
madman like Tressilian, and then a clownish fool like this 
other fellow. -I- protest, Rutland, that while he sat on his 
knees before me, mopping and mowing, as if he had scalding 
porridge in his mouth, I had much ado to forbear cutting him 
over the pate, instead of striking his shoulder.” 

“Your Majesty gave him a smart accolade,’ said the 
Duchess; ‘‘we who stood behind heard the blade clatter on 
his collarbone, and the poor man fidgeted too as if he felt it.” 

““T could not help it, wench,” said the Queen, laughing ; 
“but we will have this same Sir Nicholas sent to Ireland or 
Scotland, or somewhere, to rid our court of so antic a cheva- 
lier; he may be a good soldier in the field, though a prepos- 
terous ass in a banqueting hall.” 

‘The discourse became then more general, and soon after 
there was a summons to the banquet. 

In order to obey this signal, the company were under the 
necessity of crossing the inner court of the Castle, that they 
might reach the new buildings, containing the large banquet- 
ing room, in which preparations for supper were made upon a 
scale of profuse magnificence, corresponding to the occasion. 

The livery cupboards were loaded with plate of the richest 
description, and the most varied; some articles tasteful, some 
perhaps grotesque, in the invention and decoration, but all 
gorgeously magnificent, both from the richness of the work and 
value of the materials. Thus the chief table was adorned by 
a salt ship-fashion, made of mother of pearl, garnished with 
silver and divers warlike ensigns and other ornaments, anchors, 
sails, and sixteen pieces of ordnance. It bore a figure of 
Fortune, placed on a globe, with a flag in her hand. Another 
salt was fashioned of silver, in form of a swan in full sail. That 
chivalry might not be omitted amid this splendor, a silver 
Saint George was presented, mounted and equipped in the 
usual fashion in which he bestrides the dragon. ‘The figures 
were moulded to be in some sort useful. ‘The horse’s tail was 
managed to hold a case of knives, while the breast of the 
dragon presented a similar accommodation for oyster knives, 

In the course of the passage from the hall of reception to the 
banqueting room, and especially in the courtyard, the new-made 
knights were assailed by the heralds, pursuivants, minstrels, 


KENILWORTH. 325 


etc., with the usual cry of Largesse, largesse, chevaliers trés hardis $ 
an ancient invocation, intended to awaken the bounty of the 
acolytes of chivalry toward those whose business it was ta 
register their armorial bearings, and celebrate the deeds by 
which they were illustrated. The call was of course liberally 
and courteously answered by those to whom it was addressed. 
Varney gave his largesse with an affectation of complaisance 
and humility. Raleigh bestowed his with the graceful ease 
yeculiar to one who has attained his own place, and is familiar 
with its dignity. Honest Blount gave what his tailor had left 
him of his half-year’s rent, dropping some pieces in his hurry, 
then stooping down to look for them, and then distributing 
them amongst the various claimants, with the anxious face and 
mien of the parish beadie dividing a dole among paupers. 

These donations were accepted with the usual clamor and 
vivats of applause common on such occasions; but as the 
parties gratified were chiefly dependants of Lord Leicester, it 
was Varney whose name was repeated with the loudest accla- 
mations. Lambourne, especially, distinguished himself by his 
vociferations of ‘‘ Long life to Sir Richard Varney !—Health 
and honor to Sir Richard !—Never was a more worthy knight 
dubbed !”—then suddenly sinking his voice, he added,— 
“since the valiant Sir Pandarus of Troy,”—a winding-up of his 
clamorous applause, which set all men a-laughing who were 
within hearing of it. 

It is unnecessary to say anything further of the festivities 
of the evening, which were so brilliant in themselves, and re- 
ceived with such obvious and willing satisfaction by the Queen, 
that Leicester retired to his own apartment, with all the giddy 
raptures of successful ambition. Varney, who had changed 
his splendid attire, and now waited on his patron in a very 
modest and plain undress, attended to do the honors of the 
Earl’s covwcher. 

‘How! Sir Richard,” said Leicester, smiling, “ your new 
rank scarce suits the humility of this attendance.” 

_ “T would disown that rank, my lord,” said Varney, “ could 
I think it was to remove me to a distance from your lordship’s 
person.” 

“Thou art a grateful fellow,” said Leicester; ‘but I must 
not allow you to do what would abate you in the opinion of 
others.” 

While thus speaking, he still accepted, without hesitation, the 
offices about,his person, which the new-made knight seemed 
to render as eagerly as if he had really felt, in discharging the 
task, that pleasure which his words expressed, 


326 KENILWORTH. 


‘“T am not afraid of men’s misconstruction,” he said, in 
answer to Leicester’s remark, “since there is not—(permit me 
to undo the collar)—a man within the Castle, who does not 
expect very soon to see persons of a rank far superior to that 
which, by your goodness, I now hold, rendering the duties of 
the bed-chamber to you, and accounting it an honor.” 

“Tt might, indeed, so have been,” said the Earl, with an 
involuntary sigh; and then presently added, ‘‘ My gown, Var- 
ney—I will look out on the night. Is not the moon near to 
the full?” 

“J think so, my lord, according to the calendar,” answered 
Varney. 

There was an abutting window, which opened on a small 
projecting balcony of stone, battlemented as is usual in Gothic 
castles. ‘The Earl undid the lattice, and stepped out into the 
open air. ‘The station he had chosen commanded an extensive 
view of the lake, and woodlands beyond, where the bright 
moonlight rested on the clear blue waters, and the distant 
masses of oak and elm trees. ‘The moon rode high in the 
heavens, attended by thousands and thousands of inferior lumi- 
naries. All seemed already to be hushed in the nether world, 
excepting occasionally the voice of the watch (for the yeomen 
of the guard performed that duty wherever the Queen was 
present in person), and the distant baying of the hounds, dis- 
turbed by the preparations amongst the grooms and prickers 
for a magnificent hunt, which was to be the amusement of the 
next day. 

Leicester looked out on the blue arch of heaven, with 
gestures and a countenance expressive of anxious exultation, 
while Varney, who remained within the darkened apartment, 
could (himself unnoticed), with a secret satisfaction, see his 
patron stretch his hands with earnest gesticulation toward the 
heavenly bodies. 

“Ye distant orbs of living fire,” so ran the muttered invo- 
cation of the ambitious Earl, “ye are silent while you wheel your 
mystic rounds, but Wisdom has given to you a voice. Tell 
me, then, to what end is my high course destined? Shall the 
greatness to which I have aspired be bright, pre-eminent, and 
stable as your own; or am I but doomed to draw a brief and 
glittering train along the nightly darkness, and then to sink 
down to earth, like the base refuse of those arificial fires with 
which men emulate your rays?” 

He looked on the heavens in profound silence for a minute ~ 
or two longer, and then again stepped into the apartment, 


KENILWORTH. 327 


where Varney seemed to have been engaged in putting the 
Earl’s jewels into a casket. 

‘What said Alasco of my noroscope ?”’ demanded Leices- 
ter. ‘‘ You already told me, but it has escaped me, for I think 
but lightly of that art.” 

‘¢ Many learned and great men have thought otherwise,” said 
Varney; ‘‘and, not to flatter your lordship, my own opinion 
Jeans that way.” 

“Ay, Saul among the prophets?” said Leicester—‘ I 
thought thou wert sceptical in all such matters as thou couldst 
neither see, hear, smell, taste, or touch, and that thy belief was 
limited by thy senses.” 

“Perhaps, my lord,” said Varney, ‘‘I may be misled on the 
present occasion by my wish to find the predictions of astrology 
true. Alasco says, that your favorite planet is culminating, 
and that the adverse influence—he would not use a plainer 
term—though not overcome, was evidently combust, I think he 
said, or retrograde.” 

“Tt is even so,” said Leicester, looking at an abstract of 
astrological calculations which he had in his hand; “the 
stronger influence will prevail, and, as I think, the evil hour 
pass away.—Lend me your hand, Sir Richard, to doff my gown 
—and remain an instant, if it is not too burdensome to your 
knighthood, while I compose myself to sleep. I believe the 
bustle of this day has fevered my blood, for it streams through 
my veins like a current of molten lead—remain an instant, | 
pray you—I would fain feel my eyes heavy ere I closed 
them.” 

Varney officiously assisted his lord to bed, and placed a 
massive silver night-lamp, with a short sword, on a marble 
table which stood close by the head of the couch. Either in 
order to avoid the light of the lamp, or to hide his countenance 
from Varney, Leicester drew the curtain, heavy with entwined 
silk and gold, so as completely to shade his face. Varney took 
a seat near the bed, but with his back toward his master, as if 
to intimate that he was not watching him, and quietly waited 
till Leicester himself led the way to the topic by which his mind 
was engrossed. 

‘And so, Varney,” said the Earl, after waiting in vain till 
his dependant should commence the conversation, ‘“ men talk 
of the Queen’s favor toward me?” 

“ Ay, my good lord,” said Varney; “of what can they else, 
since it is so strongly manifested?” 

“She is indeed my good and gracious mistress,” said 


328 KENILWORTH. 


Leicester, after another pause; “ but-it is written, ‘ Put not thy 
trust in Princes.’ ” 

‘““A good sentence and a true,” said Varney, “unless you 
can unite their interest with yours so absolutely, that they must 
needs sit on your wrist like hooded hawks.” 

‘“‘T know what thou meanest,” said Leicester, impatiently, 
“though thou art to-night so prudentially careful of what thou 
sayest ‘to me—Thou wouldst intimate, I might marry the Queen 
if I would?” 

“It is your speech, my lord, not mine,” answered Varney, 
“but whose soever be the speech, it is the thought of ninety- 
nine out of an hundred men throughout broad England.” 

“‘ Ay, but,” said Leicester, turning himself in his bed, “ the 
hundreth man knows better. Thou, for example, knowest the 
obstacle that cannot be overleaped.” 

“It must, my lord, if the stars speak true,” said Varney, 
composedly. 

** What, talk’st thou of them,” said Leicester, “ that believest 
not in them or in aught else?” 

‘You mistake, my lord, under your gracious pardon,” said 
Varney; “I believe in many things that predict the future. I 
believe if showers fall in April, that we shall have flowers in 
May; that if the sun shines, grain will ripen; and I believe in 
much natural philosophy to the same effect, which, if the stars 
swear to me, I will a the stars speak the truth. And in like 
manner, I will not disbelieve that which I see wished for and 

expected on earth, solely because the astrologers have read it 
in the heavens.” 

“Thou art right,” said Leicester, again tossing himself on 
his couch—‘ Earth does wish for it. I have had advices from 
the reformed churches of Germany—from the Low Countries— 
from Switzerland, urging this as a point on which Europe’s 
safety depends, France will not oppose it—The ruling party 
in Scotland look to it as their best security—Spain fears it, but 
cannot prevent it—and yet thou knowest it is impossible. 

“IT know not that, my lord,” said Varney, “ the Countess is 
indisposed.”’ 

“Villain!” said Leicester, starting up on his couch, and 
seizing the sword which lay on the table beside him, ‘ go thy 
thoughts that way ?—thou wouldst not do murder!” 

“‘ For whom or what do you hold me, my lord?” said Varney, 
assuming the superiority of an innocent man subjected to 
unjust suspicion. “I said nothing to deserve such a horrid 
imputation as your violence infers. I said but that the 
Countess was ill, And Countess though she be—lovely and 


KENILWORTH. 329 


beloved as she is, surely your lordship must hold her to be 
mortal? She may die, and your lordship’s hand become once 
more your own.” 

“ Away !away!” said Leicester ; “let me have no more ot 
this!” 

“ Good-night, my lord,” said Varney, seeming to understand 
this as a command to depart ; but Leicester’s voice interrupted 
his purpose. 

“Thou ’scapest me not thus, Sir Fool,” said he; “I think 
thy knighthood has addled thy brains—Confess thou hast talked 
of impossibilities, as of things which may come to pass.” 

“ My lord, long live your fair Countess,” said Varney ; “ but 
neither your love nor my good wishes can make her immortal, 
But God grant she live long to be happy herself, and to render 
you so! I see not but you may be King of England notwith 
standing.” 

““ Nay, now,. Varney, thou art stark mad,” said Leicester. 

**T would I were myself within the same nearness to a good 
estate of freehold,” said Varney. ‘‘ Have we not known in 
other countries, how a left-handed marriage might subsist 
betwixt persons of differing degree ?—ay, and be no hindrance 
to prevent the husband from conjoining himself afterward with 
amore suitable partner ?” 

‘* T have heard of such things in Germany,” said Leicester. 

“Ay, and the most learned doctors in foreign universities 
justify the practice from the Old ‘Testament,’ said Varney. 
“And after all, where is the harm? ‘The beautiful partner, 
whom you have chosen for true love, has your secret hours of 
relaxation and affection. Her fame is safe—her conscience may 
slumber securely—You have wealth to provide royally for your 
issue, should heaven bless you with offspring. Meanwhile you 
may give to Elizabeth ten times the leisure, and ten thousand 
times the affection, that ever Don Philip of Spain spared to her 
sister Mary; yet you know how she doated on him though so 
cold and neglectful. It requires but a close mouth and an open 
brow, and you keep your Eleanor and your fair Rosamond far 
enough separate.—Leave me to build you a bower to which no 
jealous Queen shall find a clue.” 

Leicester was silent for a moment, then sighed, and said, 
** It is impossible.—Good-night, Sir Richard Varney—yet stay 
—Can you guess what meant Tressilian by showing himself in 
such careless guise before the Queen to-day ?—to strike her 
tender heart, I should guess, with all the sympathies due to a 
lover, abandoned by his mistress, and abandoning himself,”’ 


r 
' re . f 


330 KENILWORTH. 


-Varney, smothering a sneering laugh, answered, “He be 
lieved Master Tressilian had no such matter in his head.” 

“ How!” said Leicester ; “ what mean’st thou? There is 
ever knavery in that laugh of thine, Varney.” 

“IT only meant, my lord,” said Vainey, “ that Tressilian has 
taken the sure way to avoid heart-breaking. He hath had a 
companion—a female companion—a mistress—a sort of player’s 
wife or sister, as I believe,—with him in Mervyn’s Bower, where 
I quartered him for certain reasons of my own.” 

‘“‘ A mistress !—mean’st thou a paramour ?”’ 

“ Ay, my lord ; what female else waits for hours in a gentle- 
man’s chamber?” 

“ By my faith, time and space fitting, this were a good tale 
to tell,” said Leicester. “I ever distrusted those bookish, 
hypocritical, seeming-virtuous scholars. Well, Master ‘Tressil- 
ian makes somewhat familiar with my house—if I look it over, 
he is indebted to it for certain recollections. I would not harm 
him more than I can help. Keep eye on him, however, Varney.” 

“‘T lodged him for that reason,” said Varney, “in Mervyn’s 
Tower, where he is under the eye of my very vigilant, if he 
were not also my very drunken, servant, Michael Lambourne, 
whom I have told your Grace of.” 

“Grace!” said Leicester; ‘ what mean’st thou by that 
epithet ?” 

“Tt came unawares, my lord; and yet it sounds so very 
natural, that I cannot recall it.” 

“Tt is thine own preferment that hath turned thy brain,” 
said Leicester, laughing ; “new honors are as heady as new 
wine.” 

‘“‘ May your lordship soon have cause to say so from expe- 
rience,” said Varney ; and wishing his patron good-night, he 
withdrew.* 


* Note K. Furniture of Kenilworth 


KENILWORTH, 331 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRD. 


Here stands the victim—there the proud betrayer, 
E’en as the hind pull’d down by strangling dogs 
Lies at the hunter’s feet--who courteous proffers 
To some high dame, the Dian of the chase, 
To whom he looks for guerdon, his sharp blade, 
To gash the sobbing throat. 

THE WOODSMAN. 


WE are now ro return to Mervyn’s Bower, the apartment, or 
rather the prison, of the unfortunate Countess of Leicester, 
who for some time kept within bounds her uncertainty and her 
impatience. She was aware that, in the tumult of the day, 
there might be some delay ere her letter could be safely con- 
veyed to the hands of Leicester, and that some time more might 
elapse ere he could extricate himself from the necessary attend- 
ance on Elizabeth to come and visit her in her secret bower. 
“Twill not expect him,” she said, ‘till night—he cannot be 
absent from his royal guest, even to see me. He will, I know, 
come earlier, if it be possible, but I will not expect him before 
night.’’—And yet all the while she did expect him ; and, while 
she tried to argue herself into a contrary belief, each hasty 
noise, of the hundred which she heard, sounded like the hurried 
step of Leicester on the staircase, hasting to fold her in his 
arms. 

The fatigue of body which Amy had lately undergone, with 
the agitation of mind natural to so cruel a state of uncertainty, 
began by degrees strongly to affect her nerves, and she almost 
feared her total inability to maintain the necessary self-com- 
mand through the scenes which might lie before her. But, 
although spoiled by an over-indulgent system of education, 
Amy had naturally a mind of great power, united with a frame 
which her share in her father’s woodland exercises had rendered 
uncommonly healthy. She summoned to her aid such mental 
and bodily resources; and not unconscious how much the issue 
of her fate might depend on her own self-possession, she 
prayed internally for strength of body and for mental fortitude, 
and resolved, at the same time, to yield to no nervous impulse 
which might weaken either. 

Yet when the great bell of the Castle, which was placed in 
Czesar’s Tower, at no great distance from that called Mervyn’s, 
began to send its pealing clamor abroad, in signal of the arrivaj 


332 KENILWORTH. 


of the royal procession, the din was so painfully acute to ears 
rendered nervously sensitive by anxiety, that she could hardly 
forbear shrieking with anguish, in answer to every stunning 
clash of the relentless peal. 

Shortly afterward, when the small apartment was at once 
enlightened by the shower of artificial fires with which the air 
was suddenly filled, and which crossed each other like fiery 
spirits, each bent on his own separate mission, or like sala- 
manders executing a frolic dance in the region of the syiphs, 
the Countess felt at first as if each rocket shot close by her 
eyes, and discharged its sparks and flashes so nigh that she 
could feel a sense of the heat. But she struggled against these 
fantastic terrors, and compelled herself to arise, stand by the 
window, look out, and gaze upon a sight, which at another 
time would have appeared to her at once captivating and fear- 
ful. The magnificent towers of the Castle were enveloped in 
garlands of artificial fire, or shrouded with tiaras of pale smoke. 
The surface of the lake glowed like molten iron, while many 
fireworks (then thought extremely wonderful, though now com- 
mon), whose flame continued to exist in the opposing element, 
dived and rose, hissed and roared, and spouted fire, like so 
many dragons of enchantment, sporting upon a burning lake. 

Even Amy was for a moment interested by what was to her 
so new a scene. ‘I had thought it magical art,” she said, 
“but poor Tressilian taught me to judge of such things as 
they are. Great God! and may not these idle splendors 
resemble my own hoped for happiness,—a single spark, which 
is instantly swallowed up by surrounding darkness,—a preca- 
rious glow, which rises but for a brief space into the air, that 
its fall may be the lower; Oh, Leicester; after all—all that 
thou hadst said—hast sworn—that Amy was thy love, thy life, 
can it be that thou art the magician at whose nod these en- 
chantments arise, and that she sees them, as an outcast, if not 
a captive ?” 

The sustained, prolonged, and repeated bursts of music, from 
so many different quarters, and at so many varying points of 
distance, which sounded as if not the Castle of Kenilworth 
only, but the whole country around, had been at once the 
scene of solemnizing some high national festival, carried the 
same oppressive thought still closer to her heart, while some 
notes would melt in distant and falling tones, as if in compas- 
sion for her sorrows, and some burst close and near upon her, 
as if mocking her misery, with all the insolence of unlimited 
mirth. ‘‘ Those sounds,” she said, ‘‘are m:ne—mine, because 


they are His; but I cannot say,—Be still, these loud strains 


_ ae? 


KENILWORTH. | 333 


suit me not;—and the voice of the meanest peasant that 
mingles in the dance, would have more power to modulate the 
music, than the command of her who is mistress of all.” 

By degrees the sounds of revelry died away, and the Countess 
withdrew from the window at which she had sate listening to 
them. It was night, but the moon afforded considerable light 
in the room, so that Amy was able to make the arrangement 
which she judged necessary. There was hope that Leicester 
might come to her apartment as soon as the revel in the Castle 
had subsided ; but there was also risk she might be disturbed 
by some unauthorized intruder. She had lost confidence in the 
key, since Tressilian had entered so easily, though the door was 
locked on the inside; yet all the additional security she could 
think of, was to place the table across the door, that she might 
be warned by the noise, should any one attempt to enter. 
Having taken these necessary precautions, the unfortunate lady 
withdrew to her couch, stretched herself down on it, mused in 
anxious expectation, and counted more than one hour after 
midnight, till exhausted nature proved too strong for love, for 
erief, for fear, nay, even for uncertainty, and she slept. 

Yes, she slept. The Indian sleeps at the stake, in the 
intervals between his tortures; and mental torments, in like 
manner, exhaust by long continuance the sensibility of the 
sufferer, so that an interval of lethargic repose must neces- 
sarily ensue, ere the pangs which they inflict can again be 
renewed. 

The Countess slept, then, for several hours, and dreamed 
that she was in the ancient house at Cumnor Place, listening 
for the low whistle with which Leicester often used to announce 
his presence in the courtyard, when arriving suddenly on one 
of his stolen visits. But on this occasion, instead of a whistle, 
she heard the peculiar blast of a bugle-horn, suchas her father 
used to wind on the fall of the stag, and which huntsmen then 
called a mort. She ran, as she thought, to a window that 
looked into the courtyard, which she saw filled with men in 
mourning garments. The old Curate seemed about to read the 
funeral service. Mumblazen, tricked out in an antique dress, 
like an ancient herald, held aloft a scutcheon, with its usual 
decorations of skulls, cross-bones, and hour-glasses, surrounding 
a coat-of-arms, of which she could only distinguish that it was 
surmounted with an Earl’s coronet. The old man looked at her 
with a ghastly smile, and said, “ Amy, are they not rightly 
quartered?” Just as he spoke, the horns again poured on her 
ear the melancholy yet wild strains of the mort, or death-note, 
and she awoke. 


334 KENILWORTH. 


The Countess awoke to hear a real bugle-note, or rather the 
combined breath of many bugles, sounding not the mort, but 
the jolly révecée, to remind the inmates of the Castle of 
Kenilworth that the pleasures of the day were to commence 
with a magnificient stag-hunting in the neighbouring Chase, 
Amy started up from her couch, listened to the sound, saw the 
first beams of the summer morning already twinkle through 
the lattice of her window, and recollected, with feelings of 
giddy agony, where she was, and how circumstanced. 

He thinks not of me,” she said—‘he will not come 
nigh me! A Queen is his guest, and what cares he in what 
corner of his huge Castle a wretch like me pines in doubt, 
which is fast fading into despair?” At once a sound at 
the door as of some one attempting to open it softly, filled 
her with an ineffable mixture of joy and fear; and, hasten- 
ing to remove the obstacle she had placed against the door, 
and to unlock it, she had the precaution to ask. “Is it thou, 
my love?” 

“Yes, my Countess,” murmured a whisper in reply. 

She threw open the door, and exclaiming “‘ Leicester!” flung 
her arms around the neck of the man who stood without, 
muffled in. his cloak. 

‘““No—not quite Leicester,” answered Michael Lambourne, 
for he it was, returning the caress with vehemence,—“ not 
quite Leicester, my lovely and most loving duchess, but as good 
a man.” 

With an exertion of force, of which she would at another 
time have thought herself incapable, the Countess freed herself 
from the profane and profaning grasp of the drunken de- 
bauchee, and retreated into the midst of her apartment, where 
despair gave her courage to make a stand. p 

As Lambourne, on entering, dropped the lap of his cloak 
from his face, she knew Varney’s profligate servant; the very 
last person, excepting his detested master, by whom she would 
have wished to be discovered. But she was still closely muffled 
in her traveling dress, and as Lambourne had scarce ever been 
admitted to her presence at Cumnor Place, her person, she 
hoped, might not be so well known to him as his was to her, 
owing to Janet’s pointing him frequently out as he crossed the 
court, and telling stories of his wickedness. She might have 
had still greater confidence in her disguise, had her experience 
enabled her to discover that he was much intoxicated; but this 
could scarce have consoled her for the risk which she might 
incur, from such a character, in such a time, place, and cir- 
cumstances, 


b] 


KENILWORTH. 335 


Lambourne flung the door behind him as he entered, and 
folding his arms, as if in mockery of the attitude of distraction 
into which Amy had thrown herself, he proceeded thus: 
“ Hark ye, most fair Callipolis—or most lovely Countess of 
clouts, and divine Duchess of dark corners—if thou takest all 
that trouble of skewering thyself together, like a trussed fowl, 
that there may be more pleasure in the carving, even save 
thyself the labor. I love thy first frank manner the best— 
like thy present as little’”—(he made a step toward her, and 
staggered)— “‘as little as—such a damned uneven floor as this, 
where a gentleman may break his neck, if he does not walk as 
upright as a posture master on the tight-rope.” 

“Stand back!” said the Countess; “‘do not approach 
nearer to me on thy peril!” 

“My peril!—and stand back !—Why, how now, madam ? 
Must you have a better mate than honest Mike Lambourne! I 
have been in America, girl, where the gold grows, and have 
brought off such a load on’t” 

“Good friend,” said the Countess, in great terror at the 
ruffian’s determined and audacious manner, I prithee begone, 
and leave me.” 

“And so I will, pretty one, when we are tired of each 
other’s company—not a jot sooner.”—He seized her by the 
arm, while incapable of further defence, she uttered shriek 
upon shriek. ‘“ Nay, scream away if you like it,” said he, still 
holding her fast; “I have heard the sea at the loudest, and I 
mind a squalling woman no more than a miauling kitten—Damn 
me !—TI have heard fifty or a hundred screaming at once, when 
there was a town stormed.” 

The cries of the Countess, however, brought unexpected 
aid, in the person of Lawrence Staples, who had heard her 
exclamations from his apartment below, and entered in good 
time to save her from being discovered, if not from more atro- 
cious violence. Lawrence was drunk also from the debauch of 
the preceding night, but fortunately his intoxication had taken 
a different turn from that of Lambourne. 

“What the devil’s noise is this in the ward ?*’ he said~— 
“What! man and woman together in the same cell? that is 
against rule. I will have decency under my rule, by Saint 
Peter of the Fetters! ” 

“Get thee down stairs, thou drunken beast,” said Lam. 
bourne ; ‘‘ seest thou not the lady and I would be private ?” 

“Good sir, worthy sir!” said the Countess, addressing the 
jailer, ““do but save me from him, for the sake of mercy!” 

“She speaks fairly,” said the jailer, ‘and I will take her 


336 KENILWORTH. 


part. I love my prisoners ; and I have had as good prisoners 
under my key, as they have had in Newgate or the compter. 
And so, being one of my lambkins, as I say, no one shall dis- 
turb her in her pen-fold. So, let go the woman, or I’ll knock 
your brains out with my keys.” 

“T’ll make a blood-pudding of thy midriff first,” answered 
Lambourne, laying his left hand on his dagger, but still detain- 
ing the Countess by the arm with his right—‘“ So have at thee, 
thou old ostrich, whose only living is upon a bunch of iron 
keys!” 

eriice raised the arm of Michael, and prevented him from 
drawing his dagger; and as Lambourne struggled and strove 
to shake him off, the Countess made a sudden exertion on her 
side, and slipping her hand out of the glove on which the ruf- 
fian still kept hold, she gained her liberty, and escaping from 
the apartment, ran downstairs; while at the same moment, she 
heard the two combatants fall on the floor with a noise which 
increased her terror. ‘The outer wicket offered no impediment 
to her flight, having been opened for Lambourne’s admittance ; 
so that she succeeded in escaping down the stair, and fled into 
the Pleasance, which seemed to her hasty glance the direction 
in which she was most likely to avoid pursuit. 

Meanwhile, Lawrence and Lambourne rolled on the floor of 
the apartment, closely grappled together. Neither had, hap- 
pily, opportunity to draw their daggers; but Lawrence found 
Space enough to dash his heavy keys across Michael’s face, 
and Michael, in return, grasped the turnkey so felly by the 
throat, that the blood gushed from nose and mouth; so that 
they were both gory and filthy spectacles, when one of the 
other officers of the household, attracted by the noise of the 
fray, entered the room, and with some difficulty effected the 
separation of the combatants. 

“A murrain on you both,” said the charitable mediator, 
“and especially on you, Master Lambourne! What the fiend 
lie you here for, fighting on the floor like two butcher’s curs in 
the kennel of the shambles?” | 

Lambourne arose, and somewhat sobered by the interposi- 
tion of a third party, looked with something less than his usual 
brazen impudence of visage; “‘ We fought for a wench, an thou 
must know,” was his reply. 

‘A wench! Where is she?” said the officer. 

“Why, vanished, I think,” said Lambourne, looking around 
him; ‘unless Lawrence hath swallowed her. That filthy 
paunch of his devours as many distressed damsels and op- 
pressed orphans, as e’er a giant in King Arthur’s history; 


9 


KENILWORTH. . 337 


they ate his prime food; he worries them body, soul, and sub 
stance.” 7 

“Ay, ay! It’s no matter,” said Lawrence, gathering up his 
huge ungainly form from the floor ; ‘ but I have had your bet- 
ters, Master Michael Lambourne, under the little turn of my 
forefinger and thumb; and I shall have thee, before all’s done, 
under my hatches. The impudence of thy brow will not alwavs 
save thy shin-bones from iron, and thy foul thirsty gullet from 
a hempen cord.”—The words were no sooner out of his mouth, 
than Lambourne again made at him. 

“ Nay, go not to it again,” said the sewer, “ or I will call for 
him shall tame you both, and that is Master Varney—Sir Rich- 
ard, I mean—he is stirring, I promise you—I saw him cross the 
court just now.” 

Didst thou, by G—!” said Lambourne, seizing on the 
basin and ewer which stood in the apartment; “ nay, then, ele- 
ment do thy work—I thought I had enough of thee last night 
when I floated about for Orion, like a cork on a fermenting 
cask of ale.” ) 

So saying, he fell to work to cleanse from his face and 
hands the signs of the fray, and get his apparel into. some 
order. 

“What hast thou done to him?”’ said the sewer, speaking 
aside to the jailer; ‘‘ his face is fearfully swelled.” 

“Tt is but the imprint of the key of my cabinet—too good 
a mark for his gallows-face. No man shall abuse or insult my 
prisoners ; they are my jewels, and I lock them in safe casket 
accordingly.—And so, mistress, leave off your wailing—Hey | 
why, surely, there was a woman here!” 

“‘] think you are all mad this morning,” said the sewer ; 
““T saw no woman here, nor no man neither in a proper sense, 
but only two beasts rolling on the floor.” 

‘Nay, then, I am undone,” said the jailer; ‘ the prison’s 
broken, that is all. Kenilworth prison is broken,’ he con- 
tinued, in a tone of maudlin lamentation, “which was the 
strongest jail betwixt this and the Welsh marshes—ay, and a 
house that has had knights, and earls, and kings sleeping in it, 
as secure as if they had been in the Tower of London. It is 
broken, the prisoners fled, and the jailer in much danger of 
being hanged!” 

So saying, he retreated down to his.own den, to conclude 
his lamentations, or to sleep himself sober. Lambourne and 
the sewer followed him close, and it was well for them, since 
the jailer, out of mere habit, was about to lock the wicket after 
him; and had they not been within the reach of interfering, 


r 


338 KENILWORTH. 


they would have had the pleasure of being shut up in the 
turret-chamber, from which the Countess had beer. ‘ust de- 
livered. 

That unhappy lady, as soon as she found herself at liberty, 
fled, as we have already mentioned, into the Pleasance. She 
had seen this richly ornamented space of ground from the 
window of Mervyn’s Tower; and it occurred to her at the mo- 
ment of her escape, that among its numerous arbors, bowers, 
fountains, statues, and grottoes, she might find some recess, in 
which she could lie concealed until she had an opportunity of 
addressing herself to a protector, to whom she might commu- 
nicate as much as she dared of her forlorn situation, and 
through whose means she might supplicate an interview with 
her husband. 

“Tf I could see my guide,” she thought, “I would learn if 
he had delivered my letter. Even did I but see Tressilian, it 
were better to risk Dudley’s anger, by confiding my whole 
situation to one who is the very soul of honor, than to run the 
hazard of further insult among the insolent menials of this 
ill-ruled place. I will not again venture into an enclosed 
apartment. I will wait, I will watch—amidst so many human 
beings, there must be some kind heart which can judge and 
compassionate what mine endures.” 

In truth, more than one party entered and traversed the 
Pleasance. But they were in joyous groups of four or five 
persons together, laughing and jesting in their own fulness of 
mirth and lightness of heart. 

The retreat which she had chosen gave her the easy 
alternative of avoiding observation. It was but stepping back 
to the furthest recess of a grotto, ornamented with rustic work 
and moss-seats, and terminated by a fountain, and she might 
easily remain concealed, or at her pleasure discover herself to 
any solitary wanderer whose curiosity might lead him to that 
romantic retirement. Anticipating such an opportunity, she 
looked into the clear basin, which the silent fountain held up 
to her like a mirror, and felt shocked at her own appearance, 
and doubtful at the same time, muffled and disfigured as her 
disguise made her seem to herself, whether any female (and it 
was from the compassion of her own sex that she chiefly ex- 
pected sympathy) would engage in conference with so sus- 
picious an object. Reasoning thus lke a woman, to whom 
external appearance is scarcely in any circumstances a matter 
of unimportance, and like a beauty who had some confidence 
in the power of her own charms, she laid aside her traveling 
cloak and capotaine hat, and placed them beside her, so that 


KENILWORTH. 339° 


she could assume them in an instant, ere one could penetrate 
from the entrance of the grotto to its extremity, in case the 
intrusion of Varney or of Lambourne should render such. 
disguise necessary. The dress which she wore under these 
vestments was somewhat of a theatrical cast, so as to suit the 
assumed personage of one of the females who was to act in the 
pageant. Wayland had found the means of arranging it thus 
upon the second day of their journey, having experienced the 
service arising from the assumption of such a character on the 
preceding day. The fountain, acting both as a mirror and 
ewer, afforded Amy the means of a brief toilette, of which she 
availed herself as hastily as possible; then took in her hand 
her small casket of jewels, in case she might find them useful 
intercessors, and retiring to the darkest and most sequestered 
nook, sat down on a seat of moss, and awaited till fate should 
give her some chance of rescue, or of propitiating an inter- 
cessor. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURTH. 


Have you not seen the partridge quake, 
Viewing the hawk approaching nigh? 
She cuddles close beneath the brake 
Afraid to sit, afraid to fly. 
PRIOR. 


It chanced upon that memorable morning, that one of the 
earliest of the huntress train, who appeared from her chamber 
in full array for the Chase, was the Princess, for whom all 
these pleasures were instituted, England’s Maiden Queen. I 
know not if it were by chance, or out of the befiting courtesy 
due to a mistress by whom he was so much honored, that she 
had scarcely made one step beyond the threshold of her 
chamber ere Leicester was by her side, and proposed to her, 
until the preparations for the Chase had been completed, to 
view the Pleasance, and the gardens which it connected with 
the Castleyard. 

To this new scene of pleasures they walked, the Earl’s arm 
affording his Sovereign the occasional support which she re- 
quired, where flights of steps, then a favorite ornament ina 
garden, conducted them from terrace to terrace, and from 
parterre to parterre. The ladies in attendance, gifted with 
prudence, or endowed perhaps with the amiable desire of acting 
as they would be done by, did not conceive their duty to the 


340 KENILWORTH. 


Queen’s person required them, though they lost not sight of 
her, to approach so near as to share, or perhaps disturb, the 
conversation betwixt the Queen and the Earl, who was not only 
her host but also her most trusted, esteemed, and favored ser- 
vant. ‘They contented themselves with admiring the grace of 
this illustrious couple, whose robes of state were now exchanged 
for hunting suits, almost equally magnificent. 

Elizabeth’s silvan dress, which was of a pale blue silk, with 
silver lace and azguillettes, approached in form to that of the 
ancient amazons; and was, therefore, well suited at once to her 
pene and to the dignity of her mien, which her conscious 
rank and long habits of authority had rended in some degree 
too masculine to be seen to the best advantage in ordinary 
female weeds. Leicester’s hunting-suit of Lincoln-green, richly 
embroidered with gold, and crossed by the gay baldric, which 
sustained a bugle-horn, and a wood knife instead of a sword, 
became its master, as did his other vestments of court or of war. 
For such were the perfections of his form and mien, that Leices- 
ter was always supposed to be seen to the greatest advan- 
tage in the character and dress which for the time he repre- 
sented or wore. 

The conversation of Elizabeth and the favorite Earl has not 
reached us in detail. But those who watched at some distance 
(and the eyes of courtiers and court ladies are right sharp) were 
of opinion, that on no occasion did the dignity of Elizabeth, in 
gesture and motion, seem so decidedly to soften away into a 
mien expressive of indecision and tenderness. Her step was 
not only slow, but even unequal, a thing most unwonted in her 
carriage ; her looks seemed bent on the ground, and there was 
a timid disposition to withdraw from her companion, which ex- 
ternal gesture in females often indicates exactly the opposite 
tendency in the secret mind. The Duchess of Rutland, who 
ventured nearest, was even heard to aver, that she discerned a 
tear in Elizabeth’s eye, anda blush on the cheek; and still 
further, ‘“‘She bent her looks on the ground to avoid mine,” 
said the Duchess ; “ she who, in her ordinary mood, could look 
down a lion.” ‘To what conclusion these symptoms led is suf- 
ficiently evident; nor were they probably entirely groundless. 
The progress of private conversation, betwixt two persons of 
different sexes, is often decisive of their fate, and gives it a turn 
very different perhaps from what they themselves anticipated. 
Gallantry becomes mingled with conversation, and affection and 
passion come gradually to mix with gallantry. Nobles as well 
as shepherd swains, will in such a trying moment, say more than 


KENILWORTH. 341 


they intended; and Queens, like village maidens, will listen 
longer than they should. 

Horses in the meanwhile neighed, and champed the bits with 
impatience in the base-court ; hounds yelled in their couples, 
and yeomen, rangers, and prickers, lamented the exhaling of 
the dew, which would prevent the scent from lying. But Leices- 
ter had another chase in view, or, to speak more justly to- 
ward him, had become engaged in it without premeditation, as 
the high-spirited hunter which follows the cry of the hounds 
that hath crossed his path by accident. The Queen—an accom- 
plished and handsome woman—the pride of England, the hope 
of France and Holland, and the dread of Spain, had probably 
listened with more than usual favor to that mixture of romantic 
gallantry with which she always loved to be addressed ; and 
the Earl had, in vanity, in ambition, or in both, thrown in more 
and more of that delicious ingredient, until his importunity be- 
came the language of love itself. 

“No, Dudley,” said Elizabeth, yet it was with broken ac- 
cents—‘‘ No, I must be the mother of my people. Other ties, 
that make the lowly maiden happy, are denied to her Sover- 
eign—No, Leicester, urge it no more—Were I as others, free 
to seek my own happiness—then, indeed—but it cannot—can- 
not be.—Delay the chase—delay it for half-an-hour—and leave 
me, my lord.” 

“How, leave you, madam!”’ said Leicester.—‘‘ Has my 
madness offended you?” 

““No, Leicester, not so!” answered the Queen hastily; ‘ but 
itis madness, and must not be repeated. Go—but go not, 
far from hence—and meantime let no one intrude on my 
privacy.” 

While she spoke thus, Dudley bowed deeply, and retired 
with a slowand melancholy air. ‘The Queen stood gazing after 
him, and murmured to herself—“ Were it possible—were it du 
possible !—but no—no—Elizabeth must be the wife and mother 
of England alone.” 

As she spoke thus, and in order to avoid some one whose 
step she heard approaching, the Queen turned into the grotto 
in which her hapless, and yet but too successful rival, lay con- 
cealed. 

The mind of England’s Elizabeth, if somewhat shaken by 
the agitating interview to which she had just put a period, was 
of that firm and decided character which soon recovers its 
natural tone. It was like one of those ancient druidical monu- 
ments, called Rocking-stones. The finger of Cupid, boy as he 
is painted, could put her feelings in motion, but the power of 


342 KENILWORTH, 


Hercules could not have destroyed their equilibrium. As she 
advanced with a slow pace toward the inmost extremity of 
the grotto, her countenance ere she had proceeded half the 
length, had recovered its dignity of look, and her mien its air 
of command. 

It was then the Queen became aware, that a female figure 
was placed beside, or rather partly behind, an alabaster column, 
at the foot of which arose the pellucid fountain, which occupied 
the inmost recess of the twilight grotto. The classical mind of 
Elizabeth suggested the story of Numa and Egeria, and she 
doubted not that some Italian sculptor had here represented 
the Naiad, whose inspirations gave laws to Rome. As she 
advanced, she became doubtful whether she beheld a statue or 
a form of flesh and blood. The unfortunate Amy, indeed, 
remained motionless, betwixt the desire which. she had to 
make her condition known to one of her own sex, and her awe 
for the stately form which approached her, and which, though 
her eyes had never before beheld, her fears instantly suspected 
to be the personage she really was. Amy had arisen from her 
seat with the purpose of addressing the lady, who entered the 
grotto alone, and, as she at first thought, so opportunely. But 
when she recollected the alarm which Leicester had expressed 
at the Queen’s knowing aught of their union, and became more 
and more satisfied that the person whom she now beheld was 
Klizabeth herself, she stood with one foot advanced and one 
withdrawn, her arms, head, and hands, perfectly motionless, 
and her cheek as pallid as the alabaster pedestal against which 
she leaned. Her dress was of pale sea-green silk, little dis- 
tinguished in that imperfect light, and somewhat resembled the 
drapery of a Grecian Nymph, such an antique disguise having 
been thought the most secure, where so many maskers and 
revelers were assembled; so that the Queen’s doubt of her 
being a living form was justified by all contingent circum- 
stances, as well as by the bloodless cheek and fixed eye. 

Elizabeth remained in doubt, even after she had approached 
within a few paces, whether she did not gaze on a statue so 
cunningly fashioned, that by the doubtful light it could not be 
distinguished from reality. She stopped, therefore, and fixed 
upon this interesting object her princely look with so much 
keenness, that the astonishment which had kept Amy immova- 
able gave away to awe, and she gradually cast down her eyes 
and dropped her head under the commanding gaze of the Sov- 
ereign. Still, however, she remained in all respects, saving 
this slow and profound inclination of the head, motionless and 
silent, 


KENILWORTH. 343 


From her dress, and the casket which she instinctively held 
in her hand, Elizabeth naturally conjectured that the beautiful 
but mute figure which she beheld was a performer in one of the 
various theatrical pageants which had been placed in different 
situations to surpise her with their homage, and that the poor 
player, overcome with awe at her presence, had either forgot 
the part assined her, or lacked courage to go through it. It 
was natural and courteous to give her some encouragement; 
and Elizabeth accordingly said, in a tone of condescending 
kindness—“‘ How now, fair Nymph of this lovely grotto—art 
thou spell-bound and struck with dumbness_ by the wicked en- 
chanter whom men term Fear?—We are his sworn enemy, 
maiden, and can reverse his charm. Speak, we command 
thee.” 

Instead of answering her by speech, the unfortunate Countess 
dropped on her knee before the Queen, let her casket fall from 
her hand, and clasping her palms together, looked up in the 
Queen’s face with such a mixed agony of fear and supplica- 
tion, that Elizabeth was considerably affected. 

“What may this mean?” she said; “this is a stronger 
passion than befits the occasion. Stand up, damsel—what 
wouldst thou have with us?” 

“Your protection, madam,” faltered forth the unhappy 
petitioner. 

“ Each daughter of England has it while she is worthy of 
it,” replied the Queen; “but your distress seems to have a 
deeper root than a forgotten task. Why, and in what, do you 
crave our protection ?”’ 

Amy hastily endeavored to recall what she were best to say, 
which might secure herself from the imminent dangers that 
surround her, without endangering her husband; and plunging 
from one thought to another, amidst the chaos which filled her 
mind, she could at length, in answer to the Queen’s repeated 
inquiries in what she sought protection, only falter out, “ Alas! 
I know not.” 

“This is folly, maiden,” said Elizabeth, impatiently ; for 
there was something in the extreme confusion of the suppliant, 
which irritated her curiosity, as well as interested her feelings. 
“The sick man must tell his malady to the physician, nor are 
WE accustomed to ask questions so oft, without receiving an 
answer.” 

“TY request—I implore,” stammered forth the unfortunate 
Countess,—“ I beseech your gracious protection—against— 
against one Varney.” She choked well-nigh as she uttered the 
fatal word, which was instantly caught up by the Queen. 


344 KENILWORTH, 


“What, Varney,—Sir Richard Varney-—the servant of Lord 
Leicester !—What, damsel, are you to him, or he to you?” 

*¢ [__J—was his prisoner—and he practiced on my life—and 
I broke forth to—to ’”’—— 

“To throw thyself on my. protection, doubtless,” said Eliza: 
beth. “Thou shalt have it—that is if thou art worthy; for 
we will sift this matter to the uttermost.—Thou art,” she said, 
bending on the Countess an eye which seemed designed to pierce 
her very inmost soul,—‘“‘ Thou art Amy, daughter. of Sir Hugh 
Robsart of Lidcote Hall?” 

“Forgive me—forgive me—most gracious princess!” said 
Amy, dropping once more on her knee from which she had 
arisen. 

“For what should I forgive thee, silly wench?” said Eliza- 
beth ; ‘for being the daughter of thine own father? Thou art 
brain-sick, surely. Well, I see I must wring the story from thee 
by inches—Thou didst deceive thine old and honored father— 
thy look confesses it—cheated Master Tressilian—thy blush 
avouches it—and married this same Varney.” 

Amy sprung on her feet, and interrupted the Queen eagerly, 
with, “‘ No madam, no—as there is a God above us, Iam not the 
sordid wretch you would make me! I am not the wife of that 
contemptible slave—of that most deliberate villain! I am not 
the wife of Varney ! I would rather be the bride of De- 
struction !” 

The Queen, overwhelmed in her turn by Amy’s vehemence, 
stood silent for an instant, and then replied, “‘ Why, God ha’ 
mercy, woman !—I see thou canst talk fast enough when the 
theme likes thee. Nay, tell me, woman,’’ she continued, for to 
the impulse of curiosity was now added that of an undefined 
jealousy that some deception had been practiced on her,—‘ tell 
me, woman—for by God’s day, I wiLL know—whose wife or 
whose paramour art thou ? Speak out, and be speedy—Thou 
wert better dally with a lioness than with Elizabeth.” 

Urged to this extremity, dragged as it were by irresistible 
force to the verge of a precipice, which she saw but could not 
avoid,—permitted not a moment’s respite by the eager words 
and menacing gestures of the offended Queen, Amy “at length 
uttered in despair, “The Earl of Leicester knows it all.” 

“The Earl of Leicester!” said Elizabeth, in utter astonish- 
ment—‘‘The Earl of Leicester!” she repeated, with kindling 
anger,—‘ Woman, thou art set on to this—thou dost belie him 
--he takes no keep of such things as thou art. Thou art 
suborned to slander the noblest lord, and the truest-hearted 
gentleman, in England! But were he the right hand of our 


KENILWORTH. 345 


trust, or something yet dearer to us, thou shalt have thy 
hearing, and that in his presence. Come with me—come with 
me instantly !”’ 

As Amy shrunk back with terror, which the incensed Queen 
interpreted as that of conscious guilt, Elizabeth rapidly advanced, 
seized on her arm, and hastened with swift and long steps out of 
the grotto, and along the principal alley of the Pleasance, 
dragging with her the terrified Countess, whom she still held by 
the arm, and whose utmost exertions could but just keep pace 
with those of the indignant Queen. 

Leicester was at this moment the centre of a splendid group 
of lords and ladies assembled together under an arcade, or 
portico, which closed the alley. The company had drawn to- 
gether in that place, to attend the commands of her Majesty 
when the hunting party should go forward, and their astonish- 
ment may be imagined, when, instead of seeing Elizabeth 
advance toward them with her usual measured dignity of 
motion, they beheld her, walking so rapidly, that she was in 
the midst of them ere they were aware ; and then observed, 
with fear and surprise, that her features were flushed betwixt 
anger and agitation, that her hair was loosened by her haste 
of motion, and that her eyes sparkled as they were wont when 
the spirit of Henry VIII. mounted highest in his daughter. 
Nor were they less astonished at the appearance of the pale, 
attenuated, half dead, yet still lovely female, whom the Queen 
upheld by main strength with one hand, while with the other 
she waved aside the ladies and nobles who pressed toward her, 
under the idea that she was taken suddenly ill.—“ Where is 
my Lord of Leicester?” she said, in a tone that thrilled with 
astonishment all the courtiers who stood around—* Stand forth, 
my Lord of Leicester!”’ 

If, in the midst of the most serene day of summer, when 
all is light and laughing around, a thunderbolt were to fall from 
the clear blue vault of heaven, and rend the earth at the very 
feet of:some careless: traveler, he could not gaze upon the 
smouldering chasm, which so unexpectedly yawned before him, 
with half the astonishment and fear which Leicester felt at the 
sight that so suddenly presented itself. He had that instant 
been receiving, with a political affectation of disavowing and 
misunderstanding their meaning, the half uttered, half intimated 
congratulations of the courtiers, upon the favor of the Queen, 
‘carried apparently to its highest pitch during the interview of 
that morning ; from which most of them seemed to augur, that 
he might soon arise from their equal in rank to become their 
master, And now, while the subdued yet proud smile with 


346 KENILWORTH. 


which he disclaimed those inferences was yet curling his cheek, 
the Queen shot into the circle, her passions excited to the 
uttermost ; and, supporting with one hand, and apparently 
without an effort, the pale and sinking form of his almost 
expiring wife, and pointing with the finger of the other to her 
half-dead features, demanded in a voice that sounded to the 
ear of the astounded statesman like the last dread trumpet- 
call, that is to summon body and spirit to the judlgneenigeat, 
“ Knowest thou this woman ?” 

As, at the blast of that last trumpet, the guilty shall call 
upon the mountains to cover them, Leicester’s inward thoughts 
invoked the stately arch which he had built in. his pride, to 
burst its strong conjunction, and overwhelm them in ‘its ruins. 
But the cemented stones, architrave and battlement, stood fast ; 
and it was the proud master himself, who, as if some actual 
pressure had bent him to the earth, kneeled down: before 
Elizabeth, and prostrated his brow to the marble flag-stones ‘on 
which she stood. 

“Leicester,” said Elizabeth, in a voice which trembled with 
passion, “could I think thou hast practiced on me—on me thy 
Sovereign—on me thy confiding, thy too partial mistress, the 
base and ungrateful deception which thy present confusion 
surmises—by all that is holy, false lord, that head of thine 
were in as great peril as ever was thy father’s ! ” 

Leicester had not conscious innocence, but he had pride to 
support him. He raised slowly his brow and features, which 
were black and swollen with contending emotions, and only 
replied, “My head cannot fall but by the sentence of my peers 
—tothem I will plead, and not to a princess who thus requites 
my faithful service.” | 

“What ! my lords,” said Elizabeth, looking around, ‘‘ we are 
defied, I. think—defied in the Castle we have ourselves be- 
stowed on this proud man?—My Lord Shrewsbury, you are 
marshal of England, attach him of high treason.” 

‘“Whom does your Grace mean?” said Shrewsbury, much 
surprised, for he had that instant joined the astonished circle. 

‘“Whom should I mean, but that traitor Dudley, Earl of 
Leicester !—Cousin of Hunsdon, order out your band of gentle- 
men pensioners, and take him ‘into. instant custody.—I say, 
villain, make haste !”’ 

Hunsdon, a roughiold noble, who, from his relationship to 
the Boleyns, was. accustomed to use more freedom with the 
Queen than almost any other dared to do, replied bluntly, “ And 
it is hike your Grace might order me to the Tower to-morrow 
for making too much haste. I do beseech you to be patient.” 


KENILWORTH. 347 


“‘ Patient—God’s life!” exclaimed the Queen, “ name nct 
the word to me—thou know’st not of what he is guilty !-” 

Amy, who had by this time in some degree recovered het 
self, and who saw her husband, as she conceived, in the utmost 
danger from the rage of an offended Sovereign, instantly (and 
alas, how many women have done the same!) forgot her own 
wrongs, and her own danger, in her apprehensions for him, and 
throwing herself before the Queen, embraced her knees, while 
she exclaimed, “He is guiltless, madam, he is guiltless—no 
one can lay aught to the charge of the noble Leicester.” 

“Why, minion,” answered the Queen, “didst not thou 
thyself, say that the Earl of Leicester was privy to thy whole 
history ?” 

“Did I say so?” repeated the unhappy Amy, laying aside 
every consideration of consistency, and of self-interest ; ‘Oh, 
if I did, I foully belied him. May God so judge me, as I be- 
lieve he was never privy to a thought that would harm me!” 

“Woman!” said Elizabeth, * I will know who has moved 
thee to this ; or my wrath—and the wrath of kings is a flaming 
fire—shall wither and consume thee like a weed in the furnace.” 

As the Queen uttered this threat, Leicester’s better angel 
called his pride to his aid, and reproached him with the utter 
extremity of meanness which would overwhelm him forever, if 
he stooped to take shelter under the generous interposition of 
his wife, and abandoned her, in return for her kindness, to the 
resentment of the Queen. He had already raised his head, 
with the dignity of a man of honor, to avow his marriage, and 
proclaim himself the protector of his Countess, when Varney, 
born, as it appeared, to be his master’s evil genius, rushed into 
the presence, with every mark of disorder on his face and 
apparel. 

‘What means this saucy intrusion?” said Elizabeth. 

Varney, with the air of a man overwhelmed with grief and 
confusion, prostrated himself before her feet, exclaiming, “ Par- 
don, my Liege, pardon !—or at least let your justice avenge 
itself on me, where it is due; but spare my noble, my gener- 
ous, my innocent patron and master!” 

_ Amy, who was yet kneeling, started up as she saw the man 
whom she deemed most odious place himself so near her, and 
was about to fly toward Leicester, when, checked at once by 
the uncertainty and even timidity which his looks had re- 
assumed as soon as the appearance of his confidant seemed to 
open a new scene, she hung back, and uttering a faint scream, 
besought of her Majesty to cause her to be imprisoned in the 
lowest dungeon of the Castle—to deal with her as the worst of 


348 KENILWORTH. 


criminals—“ But spare,” she exclaimed, “my sight and hear- 
ing, what will destroy the little judement I have left—the sight 
of that unutterable and most shameless villain! ” 

“ And why, sweetheart ?” said the Queen, moved by a new 
impulse; “what hath he, this false knight, since such thou 
accountest him, done to thee? ” 

““Oh, worse than sorrow, madam, and worse than injury— 
he has sown dissension where most there should be peace. I 
shall go mad if I look longer on him.” 

« Beshrew me, but I think thou art distraught already,” 
answered the Queen.—* My Lord Hunsdon, look to this poor 
distressed young woman, and let her be safely bestowed and i in 
honest keeping, till we require her to be forthcoming.” 

Two or three of the ladies in attendance, either moved by 
compassion for a creature so interesting, or by some other 
motive, offered their service to look after her; but the Queen 
briefly answered, ‘“ Ladies, under favor, no.—You have all 

give God thanks) sharp ears and nimble tongues—our kins- 
man Hunsdon has ears of the dullest, and a tongue somewhat 
rough, but yet of the slowest. —Hunsdon, look to it that none 
have speech of her.” 

“By Our Lady!” said Hunsdon, taking in his” strong 
sinewy arms the fading and almost swooning form of Amy, 
“she is a lovely child; and though a rough nurse, your Grace 
hath given her a kind one. She is safe with me as one of my 
own ladybirds of daughters.” 

So saying, he car ried her off, unresistingly and almost un- 
consciously ; ‘his war-worn locks and long gray beard mingling 
with her light-brown tresses, as her head teclined on his strong 
square shoulder. ‘The Queen followed him with her eye—she 
had already, with that self-command which forms so necessary 
a part of a Sovereign’s accomplishments, suppressed every 
appearance of agitation, and seemed as if she desired to banish 
all traces of her burst of passion from the recollection of those 
who had witnessed it. ‘“ My Lord of Hunsdon says well,” she 
observed’; “he is indeed but a rough nurse for so tender a 
babe.” 4 
“My Lord of Hunsdon,”’ said the Dean of Saint Asaph, 
*T speak it not in defamation of his more noble qualities, hath 
a broad license in speech, and garnishes his discourse some- 
what too freely with the cruel and superstitious oaths, which 
savor both of profaneness and of old papistrie. 7 

“Tt is the fault of his blood, Mr. Deans,” said the Queen; 
turning ‘sharply round upon the reverend dignitary as she 
spoke; “and you may blame mine for the same distempera- 


KENILWORTH. | 349 


ture. The Boleyns were ever a hot and plain-spoken race, 
more hasty to speak their mind than careful to choose their 
expressions. And, by my word—I hope there is no sin in that 
affirmation—lI question if it were much cooled by mixing with 
that of Tudor.” 

As she made this last observation, she smiled graciously 
and stole her eyes almost insensibly round to seek those of the 
Karl of Leicester, to whom she now began to think she had 
spoken with hasty harshness upon the unfounded suspicion of 
a moment, 

The Queen’s eye found the Ear! in no mood to accept the 
implied offer of conciliation. His own looks had followed, with 
late and rueful repentance, the faded form which Hunsdon had 
just borne from the presence; they now reposed gloomily on 
the ground, but more—so at least it seemed to Elizabeth—with 
the expression of one who has received an unjust affront, than 
of him who is conscious of guilt. She turned her face angrily 
from him, and said to Varney, “* Speak, Sir Richard, and explain 
these riddles—thou hast sense and the use of speech, at least, 
which elsewhere we look for in vain.” 

As she said this, she darted another resentful glance tow- 
ard Leicester, while the wily Varney hastened to tell his own 
story. 

“Your Majesty’s piercing eye,” he said, “has already de- 
tected the cruel malady of my beloved lady; which, unhappy 
that I am, I would not suffer to be expressed in the certificate 
of her physician, seeking to conceal what has now broken. out 
with so much the more scandal.” 

“She is then distraught?” said the Queen—“ indeed we 
doubted not of it—her whole demeanor bears it out. I found 
her moping in a corner of yonder grotto; and every word she » 
spoke—which indeed I dragged from her as by the rack—she 
instantly recalled and forswore. But how came she hither? 
Why had you her not in safe-keeping?” 

‘“‘ My gracious Liege,”’ said Varney, “ the worthy gentleman 
under whose charge I left her, Master Anthony Foster, has come 
hither but now, as fast as man and horse can travel, to show 
me of her escape, which she managed with the art peculiar to 
many who are afflicted with this malady. He is at hand for 
examination.” 

“Let it be for another time,” said the Queen. “ But, Sir 
Richard, we envy you not your domestic felicity ; your lady 
railed on you bitterly, and seemed ready to swoon at beholding 

ou.” 

“Tt is the nature of persons in her disorder, so please your 


350 KENILWORTH. 


Grace,” answered Varney, “to be ever most inveterate in their 
spleen against those whom, in their better moments, they hold 
nearest and dearest.” 

‘“¢ We have heard so, indeed,” said Elizabeth, “and give faith 
to the saying.” 

‘“¢ May your Grace then be pleased,” said Varney, “ to com- 
mand my unfortunate wife to be delivered into the custody of 
her friends ?” 

Leicester partly started; but, making a strong effort, he 
subdued his emotion, while Elizabeth answered sharply, ‘* You 
are something too hasty, Master Varney; we will have first a 
report of the lady’s health and state of mind from Masters, our 
own physician, and then determine what shall be thought just. 
You shall have license, however, to see her, that if there be any 
matrimonial quarrel betwixt you—suck things we have heard do 
occur, even betwixt a loving couple—you may make it up, with- 
out further scandal to our court, or trouble to ourselves.” 

Varney bowed low, and made no other answer. 

Ilizabeth again looked toward Leicester, and said, with a 
degree of condescension which could only arise out of the most 
heartfelt interest, ‘‘ Discord, as the Italian poet says, will find 
her way into peaceful convents, as well as into the privacy of 
families; and we fear our own guards and ushers will hardly 
exclude her from courts. My Lord of Leicester, you are offended 
with us, and we have right to be offended with you. We will 
take the lion’s part upon us, and be the first to forgive.” 

Leicester smoothed his brow, as if by an effort, but the 
trouble was too deep-seated that its placidity should at once 
return. He said, however, that which fitted the occasion, 
“that he could not have the happiness of forgiving, because she 
who commanded him to do so, could commit no injury toward 
him, 

Klzabeth seemed content with this reply, and intimated her 
pleasure that the sports of the morning should proceed. ‘The 
bugles sounded—the hounds bayed—the horses pranced—but 
the courtiers and ladies sought the amusements to which they 
were summoned with hearts very different from those which 
had leaped to the morning’s séve/. There was doubt, and fear, 
and expectation, on every brow, and surmise and intrigue in 
every whisper. 

Blount took an opportunity to whisper into Raleigh’s ear, 
“This storm came like a levanter in the Mediterranean.” 

“ Varium et mutabile,’ answered Raleigh, in a similar tone, 

“Nay, I know nought of your Latin,” said Blount; “ but I 
thank God Tressilian took not the sea during that hurricane, 


KENILWORTH. 381 


He could scarce have missed shipwreck, knowing as he does 
so little how to trim his sails to a court gale.” 

“Thou wouldst have instructed him?” said Raleigh. 

“Why, I have profited by my time as well as thou, Sir 
Walter,” replied honest Blount. “Iam knight as well as 
thou, and of the earlier creation.” 

“Now, God further thy wit,” said Raleigh ; “but for Tres- 
silian, I would I knew what were the matter with him. He 
told me this morning he would not leave his chamber for the 
space of twelve hours or thereby, being bound by a promise. 
This lady’s madness, when he shall learn it, will not, I fear, 
cure his infirmity. The moon is at the fullest, and men’s 
brains are working like yeast. But hark! they sound to mount. 
Let us to horse, Blount; we young knights must deserve our 
spurs.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIFTH. 


Sincerity, 

Thou first of virtues! let no mortal leave 

Thy onward path, although the earth should gape, 
And from the gulf of hell destruction cry, 

To take dissimulation’s winding way. 

DouGLAS. 


Ir was not till after a long and successful morning’s sport, 
and a prolonged repast which followed the return of the Queen 
to the Castle, that Leicester at length found himself alone with 
Varney, from whom he now learned the whole particulars of 
the Countess’s escape, as they had been brought to Kenilworth 
by Foster, who, in his terror for the consequences, had himself 
posted thither with the tidings. As Varney, in his narrative, 
took especial care to be silent concerning those practices on 
the Countess’s health which had driven her to so desperate a 
resolution, Leicestef, who could only suppose that she had 
adopted it out of jealous impatience, to attain the avowed state 
and appearance belonging to her rank, was not a little offended 
at the levity with which his wife had broken his strict com- 
mands, and exposed him to the resentment of Elizabeth. 

“J have given,” he said, “to this daughter of an obscure 
Devonshire gentleman, the proudest namein England. Ihave 
made her sharer of my bed and of my fortunes. I ask but of 
her a little patience, ere she launches forth upon the full cur- 


352 KENILWORTH. 


rent of her grandeur, and the infatuated woman will rather 
hazard her own shipwreck and mine, will rather involve me in 
a thousand whirlpools, shoals, and quicksands, and compel me 
to a thousand devices which shame me in mine own eyes, than 
tarry for a little space longer in the obscurity to which she was 
born.—So lovely, so delicate, so fond, so faithful—yet to lack 
in so grave a matter the prudence which one might hope from 
the veriest fool—it puts me beyond my patience.” 

““We may post it over yet well enough,” ‘said Varney, ‘if 
my lady will be but ruled, and take on her the character which 
the time commands.” 

‘It is but too true, Sir Richard,” said Leicester, ‘ there is 
indeed no other remedy. I have heard her termed thy wife 
in my presence without contradiction. She must bear the title 
until she is far from Kenilworth.” | 

“‘ And long afterward, I trust,” said Varney; then instantly 
added, “‘ For I cannot but hope it will be long after ere she 
bear the title of Lady Leicester—I fear me it may scarce be 
with safety during the life of this Queen. But your lordship is 
best judge, you alone knowing what passages have taken place 
betwixt Elizabeth and you.” 

“ You areright, Varney,” said Leicester ; “‘ I have this morn- 
ing been both fool and villain ; and when Elizabeth hears of my 
unhappy marriage, she cannot but think herself treated with 
that premeditated slight which women never forgive. We have 
once this day stood upon terms little short of defiance ; and to 
those, I fear, we must again return.” 

“Ts her resentment, then, so implacable ?”’ said Varney. 

“Far from it,” replied the Earl ; “ for being what she is in 
spirit and in station, she has even this day been but too conde- 
scending, in giving me opportunities to repair what she thinks 
my faulty heat of temper.” 

“Ay,” answered Varney; “the Italians say right—in overs! 
quarrels, the party that loves most is always most willing to ac- 
knowledge the greater fault—So then, my lord, if this union 
with the lady could be concealed, you stand with Elizabeth as 
you did?” 

Leicester sighed, and was silent for a moment ere he replied. 

“Varney, I think thou art true to me, and I will tell thee 
all. I do mot stand where I did. I have spoken to Elizabeth 
—under what mad impulse I know not—on a theme which 
cannot be abandoned without touching every female feeling to 
the quick, and which yet I dare not and cannot prosecute. She 
can never, never forgive me, for having caused and witnessed 
those yieldings to human passion,” 


KENILWORTH. 353 


“We must do something, my lord,” said Varney, ‘“‘ and that 
speedily.”’ 

“There is nought to be done,” answered Leicester, despond- 
ingly; ‘“‘I am like one that has long toiled up a dangerous 
precipice, and when he is within one perilous stride of the top, 
finds his progress arrested when retreat has become impossible: 
I see above me the pinnacle which I cannot reach—beneath me 
the abyss into which I must fall, as soon as my relaxing grasp 
and dizzy brain join to hurl me from my present precarious 
stance.” 

“Think better of your situation, my lord,” said’ Varney— 
“let us try the experiment in which you have. but now ac: 
quiesced, Keep we your marriage from Elizabeth’s knowledge, 
and all may yet be well. I will instantly go to the lady myself 
—She hates me because I have been earnest with your lord- 
ship, as she truly suspects, in opposition to what she terms her 
rights. I care not for her prejudices—She s/a/Z listen to me ; 
and I will show her such reasons for yielding to the pressure of 
the times, that I doubt not to bring back her consent to what- 
ever measures these exigencies may require.” 

“No, Varney,’ said Leicester; ‘‘ I have thought upon what 
is to be done, and I will myself speak with Amy,” 

It was now Varney’s turn to feel, upon his own account, 
the terrors which he affected to participate solely on account 
of his patron. ‘‘ Your lordship will not yourself speak with the 
lady ?” 

‘It is my fixed purpose,”’ said Leicester ; “ fetch me one of 
the livery cloaks ; I will pass the sentinel as thy servant. Thou 
art to have free access to her.” 

“ But, my lord” 

“¢T will have no duzts,” replied Leicester ; ‘it shall be even 
thus, and not otherwise. Hunsdon sleeps, I think, in Saint- 
lowe’s Tower. We can go thither from these apartments by 
the private passage, without risk of meeting any one. Or what 
if I do meet Hunsdon? he is more my friend than my enemy, 
and thick-witted enough to adopt any belief that is thrust on 
him. Fetch me the cloak instantly.” 

Varney had no alternative save obedience. In afew minutes 
Leicester was muffled in the mantle, pulled his bonnet over his 
brows, and followed Varnay along the secret passage of the 
Castle which communicated with Hunsdon’s apartments, in 
which there was scarce a chance of meeting any inquisitive 
person, and hardly light enough for any such to have satisfied 
their curiosity.. They emerged at a door where Lord Hunsdon 
had, with military precaution, placed a sentinel, one of his own 


354 KENILWORTH. 


northern retainers as it fortuned, who readily admitted Sir 
Richard Varney and his attendant, saying only, in his northern 
dialect, “I would, man, thou couldst make the mad lady be 
still yonder ; for her moans do sae dirl through my head, that 
I would rather keep watch on a snow-drift in the wastes of 
Catlowdie.” 

They hastily entered and shut the door behind them. 

“Now, good devil, if there be one,” said Varney, within 
himself, “ for once help a votary at a dead pinch, for my boat 
is among the breakers !” 

The Countess Amy, with her hair and her garments dis- 
heveled, was seated upon a sort of couch, in an attitude of the 
deepest affliction, out of which she was startled by the opening 
of the door. She turned hastily round, and fixing her eye on 
Varney, exclaimed, “Wretch! art thou come to frame some 
new plan of villainy?” 

Leicester cut short her reproaches by stepping forward, and 
dropping his cloak ; while he said, in a voice rather of author- 
ity, than of affection, “Tt is with me, madam, you have to 
commune, not with Sir Richard Varney.” 

The change effected on the Countess’s look and manner 
was like magic. “ Dudley!” she exclaimed, “ Dudley! and 
art thou come at last?”? And with the speed of lightning she 
flew to her husband, clung around his neck, and unheeding the 
presence of Varney, overwhelmed him with caresses, while she’ 
bathed his face in a flood of tears; muttering, at the same 
time, but in broken and disjointed monosyllables, the fondest 
expressions which love teaches his votaries. 

Leicester, as it seemed to him, had reasonto be angry with 
his lady for transgressing his commands, and thus placing him 
in the perilous situation in which he had that morning stood. 
But what displeasure could keep its ground before these testi- 
monies of affection from a being so lovely, that even the negli- 
gence of dress, and the withering effects of fear, grief, and 
fatigue, which would have impaired the beauty of others, 
rendered hers but the more interesting? He received and 
repaid her caresses with fondness, mingled with melancholy, 
the last of which she seemed scarcely to observe, until the first 
transport of her own joy was over ; when looking anxiously in 
his face she asked if he was ill. | 

“* Not in my body, Amy,” was his answer. 

“Then I will be well too—O Dudley! I have been ill !— 
very ill, since we last met !—for I call not this morning’s hor- 
rible vision a meeting. I have been iy sickness, in grief, and 


KENILWORTH. 355 


in danger—But thou art come, and all is joy, and health,.and 
safety!” 

** Alas! Amy,” said Leicester, “thou hast undone me! ” 

TI, my lord?” said Amy, her cheek at once losing its 
transient flush of joy,—“ how could I injure that which I leve 
better than myself ? ” 

“T would not upbraid you, Amy,” replied the Earl; “but 
are you not here contrary to my express commands—and does 
not your presencc here endanger both yourself and me ? ” 

“* Does it, does it indeed?” she exclaimed, eagerly; “ then 
why am I here a moment longer? Oh, if you knew by what 
fears I was urged to quit Cumnor Place !—But I will say noth- 
ing of myself—only that if it might be otherwise, I would not 
willingly return thither ;,—yet if it concern your safety” 

‘f We will think, Amy, of some other retreat,” said Leices- 
ter; “and you shall go to one of my Northern Castles, under 
the personage—it will be but needful, I trust, for a very few 
days—of Varney’s wife.” 

“‘ How, my Lord of Leicester!” said the lady, disengaging 
herself from his embraces; ‘is it your wife you give the dis- 
honorable counsel to acknowledge herself the bride of another 
—and of all men the bride of that Varney?” 

‘Madam, I speak it in earnest—Varney is my true and 
faithful servant, trusted in my deepest secrets. I had better 
lose my right hand than his service at this moment. You have 
no cause to scorn him as you do.” 

“ T could assign one, my lord,” replied the Countess; ‘f and 
I see he shakes even under that assured look of his. But he 
that is necessary as your right hand to your safety, is free from 
any accusation of mine. May he be true to you; and that he 
may be true, trust him not too much or too far. But it is 
enough to say, that I will not go with him unless by violence, 
nor would I acknowledge him as my husband, were all ”—— 

“It is a temporary deception, madam,” said Leicester, 
irritated by her opposition, “necessary for both our safeties, 
endangered by you through female caprice, or the premature 
desire to seize on a rank to which I gave you title, only under 
condition that our marriage, for a time, should continue secret. 
If my proposal disgusts you, it is yourself has brought it on 
both of us. There is no other remedy—you must do what 
your own impatient folly hath rendered necessary—I command 
you. ” 


“T cannot put your commands, my lord,” said Amy, ‘ 
balance with those of honor and conscience. I will Nor, in 
this instance, obey you. You may achieve your own dishonor, 


356 KENILWORTH. 


to which these crooked policies naturally tend, but I will de 
nought that can blemish mine. How could you again, my lord, 
acknowledge me as a pure and chaste matron, worthy to share 
your fortunes, when, holding that high character, I had strolled 
the country the acknowledged wife of such a profligate fellow 
as your servant Varney ?”’ 

‘¢ My lord,” said Varney, interposing, “‘ my lady is too much 
prejudiced against me, unhappily, to listen to what I can offer; 
yet it may please her better than what she proposes. She has 
good interest with Master Edmund Tressilian, and could 
doubtless prevail on him to consent to be her companion to 
Lidcote Hall, and there she might remain in safety watil time 
permitted the development of this mystery.” 

Leicester was silent, but stood looking eagerly on Amy, 
with eyes which seemed. suddenly to glow as much with suspi- 
cion as with pleasure. 

The Countess only said, ‘Would to God I were in my 
father’s house !—When [I left it, I little thought I was leaving 
peace of mind and honor behind me!” 

Varney proceeded with a tone of deliberation. ‘ Doubt 
less this will make it necessary to take strangers into my 
lord’s counsels; but surely the Countess will be warrant for 
the honor of Master Tressilian and such of her father’s 
family ” 

‘“‘ Peace, Varney,” said Leicester; ‘“‘ by Heaven, I will strike 
my dagger into thee, if again thounamest Tressilian as a partner 
of my counsels!” 

‘“‘ And wherefore not?” said the Countess; ‘unless they be 
counsels fitter for such as Varney, than for a man of stainless 
honor and integrity.x—My lord, my lord, bend no angry brows 
on me—it is the truth, and it is I who speak it. I once did 
Tressilian wrong for your sake—I will not do him the further 
* injustice of being silent when his honor is brought in question. 
I can forbear,” she said, looking at Varney, “‘ to pull the mask 
off hypocrisy, but I will not permit virtue to be slandered in 
my hearing.” 

There was a dead pause. Leicester stood displeased, yet 
undetermined, and too conscious of the weakness of his cause; 
while Varney, with a deep and hypocritical affectation of sorrow, 
mingled with humility, bent his eyes on the ground. 

It was then that the Countess Amy displayed, in the midst 
of distress and difficulty, the natural energy of character, which 
would have rendered her, had fate allowed, a distinguished 
ornament of the rank which she held. She walked up to 
Leicester with a composed step, a dignified air, and looks ir 


KENILWORTH. 357 


which strong affection essayed in vain to shake the firmness of 
conscious truth and rectitude of principle. ‘ You have spoke 
your mind, my lord,” she said, “in these difficulties, with which, 
unhappily, I havefound myself unable to comply. This gentle- 
man—this person I would say—has hinted at another scheme, 
to which I object not but as it displeases you. Will your 
lordship be pleased to hear what a young and timid woman, 
but your most affectionate wile, can suggest in the pr resent 
extremity?” 

Leicester was silent but Heat his head toward the Countess, 
as an intimation that she was at liberty to proceed. 

“Phere hath been but one cause for all these evils, my lord,” 
she proceeded, “ and it resolves itself into the mysterious duplic- 
‘ ity with which you have been induced to surround yourself. 
Extricate yourself at once, my lord, from the tyranny of these 
disgraceful trammels. Be like a true English gentleman, 
knight and earl, who holds that truth is the foundation of 
honor, and that honor is dear to him as the breath of his 
nostrils. ‘Take your ill-fated wife by the hand, lead her to the 
footstool of Elizabeth’s throne.—Say, that in a moment of in- 
fatuation, moved by supposed beauty, of which none perhaps 
can now trace even the remains, I gave my hand to this Amy 
Robsart.—You will then have done justice to me, my lord, and 
to your own honor; and should law or power require you to 
part from me, I will oppose no objection—since I may then 
with honor hide a grieved and broken heart in those shades 
from which your love withdrew me. “hen—have but a little 
patience, and Amy’s life will not long darken your brighter 
prospects.” 

There was so much of dignity, so much of tenderness, in the 
Countess’s remonstrance, that it moved all that was noble and 
generous inthe soul of her husband. ‘The scales seemed to fall 
from his eyes, and the duplicity and tergiversation of which he. 
had been guilty, stung him at once with remorse and shame. 

“‘T am not worthy of you, Amy,” he said, “ that could weigh 
aught which ambition has to give against such a heart as thine. 
I have a bitter penance to perform, in disentangling, before 
sneering foes and astounded friends, all the meshes of my own 
deceitful policy—And the Queen—but let her take my head, 
as she has threatened.” 

“Your head, my lord!” said the Countess ; “‘ because you 
used the freedom and liberty of an English subject in choosing 
a wife? For shame; it is this distrust of the Queen’s justice, 
this apprehension of danger, which cannot but be imaginary, 


358° KENILWORTH. 


that, like scarecrows, have induced you to forsake the straight 
forward path, which, as it is the best, is also the safest.” 

“Ah, Amy, thou little knowest!” said Dudley ; but, instantly 
checking himself, he added, ‘‘ Yet she shall not find in mea 
safe or easy victim of arbitrary vengeance.—I have friends— 
I have allies—I will not, like Norfolk, be dragged to the block, 
as a victim to sacrifice. Fear not, Amy; thou shalt see Dudley 
bear himself worthy of his name. I must instantly communi- 
cate with some of those friends on whom I can best rely; for, 
as things stand, I may be made prisoner in my own Castle.” 

“Oh, my good lord,” said Amy, ‘make no faction in a 
peaceful state! There is no friend can help us so well as our 
own candid truth and honor. Bring but these to our assist- 
ance, and you are safe amidst a whole army of the envious and 
malignant. Leavethese behind you, and all other defence will 
be fruitless. ‘Truth my noble lord, is well painted unarmed.” 

“But Wisdom, Amy,” answered Leicester, “is arrayed in 
panoply of proof. Argue not with me on the means I shall use 
to render my confession—since it must be called so—as safe 
as may be; it will be fraught with enough of danger, do what 
we will.—Varney, we must hence—Farewell, Amy, whom I am 
to vindicate as mine own, at an expense and risk of which thou 
alone couldst be worthy. You shall soon hear further from 
me.” 

He embraced her fervently, muffled himself as before, and 
accompanied Varney from the apartment. The latter, as he 
left the room, bowed low, and, as he raised his body, regarded 
Amy with a peculiar expression, as if he desired to know how 
far his own pardon was included in the reconciliation which 
had taken place betwixt her and her lord. The Countess 
looked upon him with a fixed eye, but seemed no more con- 
scious of his presence than if there had been nothing but 
vacant air on the spot where he stood. 

“She has brought me to the crisis,” he muttered.—“ She or 
I are lost. There was something—I wot not if it was fear or 
pity—that prompted me to avoid this fatal crisis. It is now 
decided—She or I must Zerish.” 

While he thus spoke, he observed, with surprise, that a boy, 
repulsed by the sentinel, made up to Leicester, and spoke with 
him. Varney was one of those politicians, whom not the 
slightest appearances escape without inquiry. He asked the 
sentinel what the lad wanted with him, and received for 
answer, that the boy had wished him to: transmit a parcel to 
the mad lady, but that he cared not to take charge of it, such 
communication being beyond his commission. His curiosity 


KENILWORTH. 359 


satisfied in that particular, he approached his patron, and heard 
him say—‘ Well, boy, the packet shall be delivered.” 
“Thanks, good Master Serving-man,” said the boy, and was 
out of sight in an instant. 
Leicester and Varney returned with hasty steps to the 
Earl's private apartment, by the same passage which had con- 
ducted them to Saintiowe’s Tower. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH. 


I have said 

This is an adulteress—I have said with whom 3 
More, she’s a traitor, and Camillo is 

A federary with her, and one that knows 

What she should shame to know herself, 

WINTER’S TALE. 


THEY were no sooner in the Earl’s cabinet, than, taking his 
tablets from his pocket, he began to write, speaking partly to 
Varney, and partly to himself :—‘“‘ There are many of them 
close bounden to me, and especially those in good estate and 
high office; many who, if they look back toward my benefits, 
or forward toward the peri!s which may befall themselves, will 
not, I think, be disposed to see me stagger unsupported. Let 
me see—Knollis is sure, and through his means Guernsey and 
Jersey—Horsey commands in the Isle of Wight—My brothers 
in-law, Huntingdon, and Pembroke, have authority in Wales— 
Through Bedford I lead the Puritans, with their interest, so 
powerful in all the boroughs—My brother of Warwick is equal, 
well-nigh, to myself, in wealth, followers, and dependencies— 
Sir Owen Hopton is at my devotion; he commands the Tower 
of London, and the national treasure deposited there—My 
father and grandfather needed never to have stooped their 
heads to the block, had they thus forecast their enterprises.— 
Why look you so sad, Varney? I tell thee, a tree so deep 
rooted is not easily to be torn up by the tempest!” 

“Alas! my lord,” said Varney, with well-acted passion, and 
then resumed the same look of despondency which Leicester 
had before noted. 

“Alas!” repeated Leicester, “and wherefore alas, Sir 
Richard? Doth your new spirit of chivalry supply no more 
vigorous ejaculation, when a noble struggle is impending? Or, 
if @/as means thou wilt flinch from the conflict, thov mayest 


360 KENILWORTH. 


leave the Castle, or go join mine enemies, whichever thou 
thinkest best.” 

“ Not so, my lord,” Reaper torn his confidant ; “ Varney will 
be found fighting or dying by your side. Forgive me, if in 
love to you, I see more fully than your noble heart permits 
you to do, the inextricable difficulties with which you are sur- 
rounded. You are strong, my lord, and powerful ; yet, let: me 
say it without offence, you are so only by the reflected light of 
the Queen’s favor. While you are Elizabeth’s favorite, you are 
all, save in name, like an actual sovereign. But let her call 
back the honors she has bestowed, and the Prophet’s gourd did 
not wither more suddenly, Declare against the Queen, and I 
do not say that in the wide nation, or in this province alone, 
you would find yourself, instantly deserted and outnumbered ; 
but I will say, that even in this very Castle, and in the midst 
of your vassals, kinsmen, and dependants, you would be a cap- 
tive, nay, a senténced captive, should she please to say the 
word, . Think upon Norfolk, my lord—upon the powerful 
Northumberland—the splendid Westmoreland ;—think on all 
who have made head against this sage. Princess. They are 
dead, captive, or fugitive. This is not like other thrones, which 
can be overturned by a combination of powerful nobles; the 
broad foundations which support it are in the extended love 
and affections of the people.. You might share it with Eliza- 
beth if you would; but neither yours nor any other power, for- 
eign or domestic, will avail to overthrow, or even to shake it.” 

He paused, and Leicester threw his tablets from him with 
an air of reckless despite. ‘It may be as thou sayest,” he said ; 
‘and, in sooth, I care not whether truth or cowardice dictate 
thy forebodings. But it shall not be said I fell without'a strug- 
gle.—Give orders, that those of my retainers who served under 
me in Ireland be gradually drawn into the main Keep, and let 
our gentlemen.and friends stand on their guard, and go armed, 
as if they expected an onset from the followers of Sussex. 
Possess the townspeople with some apprehension ; Jet them 
take arms, and be ready, at a given. signal, to overpower the 
Pensioners and Yeomen of the: Guard.” 

“Let me remind you, my lord,” said deh de with the same 
appearance of deep ‘and melancholy interest, “ that you have 
given me orders to prepare for disarming te Queen’s guard. 
It is an act of high treason, but you shall nevertheless be 
pbeyed,”’ 

““T care not,” said Leicester, desperately ;—‘‘I care not 
Shame is behind me, Ruin before me; I must on.” 

Here there was another pause which Varney at length 


KENILWORTH. 361 


broke with the following words: “It is come to the point I 
have long dreaded. I must either witness, like an ungrateful 
beast, the downfall of the best and kindest of masters, or I must 
speak what I would have buried in the deepest oblivion, or told 
by any other mouth than mine.” 

‘What is that thou sayest, or would say?” replied the 
Earl; ‘we have no time to waste on words, when the times call 
us to action.” 

‘“‘ My speech is soon made, my lord—would to God it were 
as soon answered! Your marriage is the sole cause of the 
threatened breach with your sovereign, my lord, is it not?” 

“Thou knowest it is!” replied. Leicester. ‘“ What needs 
so fruitless a question?” 

“*Pardon me, my lord,” said Varney; “the use lies here. 
Men willl wager their lands and lives in defence of a rich dia- 
mond, my lord; but were it not first prudent to look if there is 
no flaw in it?” 

** What means this?” said Leicester, with eyes sternly fixed 
on his dependant; “of whom dost thou dare to speak?” 

“Tt is of the Countess Amy, my lord, of whom I am 
unhappily bound to speak; and of whom I wz// speak, were 
your lordship to kill me for my zeal.” 

“Thou mayest happen to deserve it at my hand,” said the 
Earl; “but speak on, I will hear thee.” 

“Nay, then, my lord, I will be bold. I speak for my own 
life as well as for your lordship’s. I like not this lady’s tam- 
pering and trickstering with this same Edmund Tressilian. 
You know him, my lord. You know he had formerly an inter- 
est in her, which it cost your lordship some pains to supersede. 
You know the eagerness with which he has pressed on the suit 
against me in behalf of this lady, the open object of which is 
to drive your lordship to an avowal of what I must ever call 
your most unhappy marriage, the point to which my lady also 
is willing, at any risk, to urge you.” 

Leicester smiled constrainedly. ‘Thou meanest well, good 
Sir Richard, and wouldst, I think, sacrifice thine own honor, 
as well as that of any other person, to save me from what thou 
think’st a step so terrible. But, remember,”—he spoke these 
words with the most stern decision,—‘‘ you speak of the Counts 
ess of Leicester.” 

“T do, my lord,’ said Varney; “but it is for the welfare of 
the Earl of Leicester. My tale is but begun. I do most 
strongly believe that this Tressilian has, from the beginning of 
his moving in her cause, been in connivance with her ladyship 
the Countess.” 


362 KENILWORTH. 


‘“ Thou speak’st wild madness, Varney, with the sober face 
of a preacher. Where or how could they communicate 
together ?” ; 

‘My lord,” said Varney, “ unfortunately I can show that 
but too well. It was just before the supplication was presented 
to the Queen, in Tressilian’s name, that I met him, to my utter 
astonishment, at the postern-gate which leads from the demesne 
at Cumnor Place.” 

“Thou met’st him, villain! and why didst thou not strike 
him dead?” exclaimed Leicester. 

“T drew on him, my Lo.d, and he on me; and had not my 
foot slipped, he would not, perhaps, have been again a stum- 
bling-block in your lordship’s path.” 

Leicester seemed struck dumb with surprise. At length he 
answered, “‘What other evidence hast thou of this, Varney 
save thine own assertion !—for, as I will punish deeply, I will 
examine coolly and warily. Sacred Heaven! but no—I will 
examine coldly and warily—coldly and warily.” He repeated 
these words more than once to himself, as if in the very sound 
there was a sedative quality; and again compressing his lips, 
as if he feared some violent expression might escape from 
them, he asked again, “ What further proof?” 

“Enough, my lord,” said Varney, “and to spare. I would 
it rested with me alone, for with me it might have been silenced 
forever. But my servant, Michael Lambourne, witnessed the 
whole, and was, indeed, the means of first introducing Tres- 
silian into Cumnor Place; and therefore I took him into my 
service, and retained him in it, though something of a de- 
bauched fellow, that I might have his tongue always under my 
own command.” Hethen acquainted Lord Leicester how easy 
it was to prove the circumstance of their interview true, by 
evidence of Anthony Foster, with the corroborative testimonies 
of the various persons at Cumnor, who had heard the wager 
laid, and had seen Lambourne and Tressilian set off together. 
In the whole narrative, Varney hazarded nothing fabulous, ex- 
cepting that, not indeed by direct assertion, but by inference, 
he led his patron to suppose that the interview betwixt Amy 
and Tressilian at Cumnor Place had been longer than the few 
minutes to which it was in reality limited. 

“ And wherefore was I not told of all this ?”’ said Leicester, 
sternly. ‘“ Why did all of ye—and in particular thou, Varney 
—keep back from me such material information ? ” 

“‘ Because, my lord,” replied Varney, “the Countess pre- 
tended to Foster and to me, that Tressilian had intruded him- 
self upon her, and I concluded their interview had been in all 


f 


RENILWORTH. 383 


honor, and that she would at her own time tell it to your lord- 
ship. Your lordship knows with what unwilling ears we listen 
to evil surmises against those whom we love; and I thank 
Heaven, I am no make-bate or informer, to be the first to sow 
them.” - 

“You are but too ready to receive them, however, Sir 
Richard,” replied his patron. ‘‘ How knowest thou that this 
interview was not in all honor, as thou hast said? Methinks 
the wife of the Earl of Leicester might speak for a short time 
with such a person as ‘Tressilian, without injury to me or 
suspicion to herself.” 

“‘ Questionless, my lord,” answered Varney, “ had I thought 
otherwise, I had been no keeper of the secret. But here lies 
the rub—Tressilian leaves not the place without establishing a 
correspondence with a poor man, the landlord of an inn in 
Cumnor, for the purpose of carrying off the lady. He sent 
down an emissary of his, whom I trust soon to have in right 
sure keeping under Mervyn’s Tower. Kailligrew and Lambs- 
bey are scouring the country in quest of him. ‘The host is re- 
warded with a ring for keeping counsel—your lordship may 
have noted it on Tressilian’s hand—here it is. This fellow, 
this agent, makes his way to the Place as a pedler, holds con- 
ferences with the lady, and they make their escape together by 
night—rob a poor fellow of a horse by the way, such was their 
guilty haste; and at length reach this castle, where the Countess 
of Leicester finds refuge—I dare not say in what place.” 

“Speak, I command thee,” said Leicester ; ‘“‘speak while I 
retain sense enough to hear thee.” 

“Since it must be so,” answered Varney, “the lady resorted 
immediately to the apartment of Tressilian, where she re- 
mained many hours, partly in company with him, and partly 
alone. I told you Tressilian had a paramour in his chamber— 
I little dreamed that paramour was ”’—— 

** Amy, thou wouldst say,” answered Leicester; “but it is 
false, false as the smoke of hell! Ambitious she may be— 
fickle and impatient—’tis a woman’s fault ; but false to me !— 
never, never—The proof—the proof of this!” he exclaimed, 
hastily. 

“Carrol, the Deputy Marshal, ushered her thither by her 
own desire, on yesterday afternoon—Lambourne and_ the 
Warder both found her there at an early hour this morning.” 

“Was Tressilian there with her?” said Leicester, in the 
same hurried tone. 

“No my lord. You may remember,” answered Varney, 


364 KENILWORTH. 


“that he was that night placed with Sir Nicholas Blount, under 
a species of arrest.” 

“Did Carrol, or the other fellows, know who she was!” 
demanded Leicester. 

“No, my lord,” replied Varney ; “Carrol and the Warder 
had never seen the Countess, and Lambourne knew her not in 
her disguise ; but, in seeking to prevent her leaving the cell, he 
obtained possession of one of her gloves, which, I think, your 
lordship may know.” 

He gave the glove which had the Bear and Ragged Staff, the 
Earl’s impress, embroidered upon it in seed pearls. 

“T do, I do recognize it,” said Leicester. “'They were my 
own gift. The fellow of it was on the arm which she threw this 
very day around my neck!”—He spoke this with violent 
agitation. 

“Your lordship,” said Varney, “might yet further inquire of 
the lady herself, respecting the truth of these passages.” 

“Tt needs not—it needs not,” said the tortured Earl; ‘‘it is 
written in characters of burning light, as if they were branded 
on my very eyeballs! I see her infamy—I can see nought 
else and—gracious Heaven !—for this vile woman was I about 
to commit to danger the lives of so many noble friends—shake 
the foundation of a lawful throne—carry the sword and torch 
through the bosom of a peaceful land—wrong the kind mistress 
who made me what I am—and would, but for that hell-framed 
marriage, have made me a!l that man can be! All this I was 
ready to do for a woman, who trinkets and traffics with my 
worst foes!—And thou, villain, why didst thou not speak 
sooner?” 

“My lord,” said Varney, “a tear from my lady would have 
blotted out all I could have said. Besides, I had not these 
proofs until this very morning, when Anthony Foster’s sudden 
arrival, with the examinations and declarations, which he had 
extorted from the innkeeper Gosling, and others, explained the 
manner of her flight from Cumnor Place, and my own researches 
discovered the steps which she had taken here.” 

‘““Now, may God be praised for the light he has given! so 
full, so satisfactory, that there breathes not a man in England 
who shall call my proceeding rash, or my revenge unjust.— 
And yet, Varney, so young, so fair, so fawning, and so false! 
Hence, then her hatred to thee, my trusty, my well-beloved 
servant, because you withstood her plots, and endangered her 
paramour’s life!” 

“JT never gave her any other cause of dislike, my lord,” 
replied Varney ; “‘ but she knew that my counsels went directly 


KENILWORTH. 365 


to diminish her influence with your lordship, and that I was, 
and have been, ever ready to peril my life against your 
enemies.” 

“It is too, too apparent,” replied Leicester ; “ yet, with what 
an air of magnanimity she exhorted me to commit my head to 
the Queen’s mercy, rather than wear the veil of falsehood a 
momentlonger! Methinks the angel of truth himself can have 
no such tones of high-souled impulse. Can it be so, Varney ? 
—Can falsehood use thus boldly the language of truth ?—Can 
infamy thus assume the guise of purity ?—Varney, thou hast 
been my servant from a child—I have raised thee high—can 
raise thee higher. Think, think for me! ‘Thy brain was ever 
shrewd and piercing—-May she not be innocent? Prove herso 
and all I have yet done for thee shall be as nothing—nothing 
—in comparison of thy recompense ?” 

The agony with which his master spoke had some effect even 
on the hardened Varney, who, in the midst of his own wicked 
and ambitious designs, really loved his patron as well as such a’ 
wretch was capable of loving anything; but he comforted 
himself, and subdued his self-reproaches, with the reflection, that 
if he inflicted upon the Earl some immediate and transitory 
pain, it was in order to pave his way to the throne, which, were 
this marriage dissolved by death or otherwise, he deemed Eliza- 
beth would willingly share with his benefactor. He therefore 
persevered in his diabolical policy ; and, aftera moment’s con- 
sideration, answered the anxious queries of the Earl with a 
melancholy look, as if he had in vain sought some exculpation 
for the Countess ; then suddenly raising his head, he said with 
an expression of hope, which instantly communicated itself to 
the countenance of his patron—‘‘ Yet wherefore, if guilty, 
should she have periled herself by coming hither ?—Why not 
rather have fled to her father’s or elsewhere ?—though that, 
indeed, might have interfered with her desire to be acknowl- 
edged as Countess of Leicester.” 

“True, true, true !”’ exclaimed Leicester, his transient gleam 
of hope giving way to the utmost bitterness of feeling and 
expression ; “thou art not fit to fathom a woman’s depth of 
wit, Varney. I see it all. She would not quit the estate and 
title of the wittol who had wedded her. Ay, and if in my 
madness I had started into rebellion, or if the angry Queen 
had taken my head, as she this morning threatened, the wealthy 
dower which law would have assigned to the Countess Dowager 
of Leicester, had been no bad windfall to the beggarly Tressil- 
ian, Well might she goad me on to danger, which could not 


366. KENILWORTH. 


end otherwise than profitably to her.—Speak not for her, Var- 
ney! I will have her blood!” 

‘““My lord,” replied Varney, ‘the wildness of your distress 
breaks forth in the wildness of your language.” 

“T say, speak not for her!” replied Leicester; “she has. 
_ dishonored me—she would have murdered me—all ties are 
burst between us. She shall die the death of a traitress and 
adulteress, well merited both by the laws of God and man. 
And—what is this casket,” he said, ‘‘ which was even now 
thrust into my hand by a boy, with the desire I would convey 
it to Tressilian, as he could not give it to the Countess? | Ly. 
Heaven! the words surprised me as he spoke them, though 
other matters chased them from my brain ; but now they return 
with double force.—It is her casket of jewels !—Force it open, 
Varney ; force the hinges open with thy poniard.” 

“She refused the aid of my dagger once,” thought Varney, 
as he unsheathed the weapon to cut the string which bound a 
letter, “ but now it shall work a mightier ministry in her for- 
tunes.” 

With this reflection, by using the three-cornered_stiletto- 
blade as a wedge, he forced open the slender silver hinges of 
the casket. The Earl no sooner saw them give way, than he 
snatched the casket from Sir Richard’s hand, wrenched off 
the cover, and tearing out the splendid contents, flung them on 
the floor in a transport of rage, while he eagerly searched for 
some letter or billet, which should make the fancied guilt of 
his innocent Countess yet more apparent. ‘Then stamping 
furiously on the gems, he exclaimed, “Thus I annihilate the 
miserable toys for which thou hast sold thyself, body and soul, 
consigned thyself to an early and timeless death, and me to 
misery and remorse forever!—Tell me not of forgiveness, 
Varney—SsShe is doomed !” 

So saying, he left the room, and rushed into an adjacent 
closet, the door of which he locked and bolted. 

Varney looked after him, while something of a more human 
feeling seemed to contend with his habitual sneer. “I am 
sorry for his weakness,” he said, “but love has made him a 
child. He throws down and treads on these costly toys—with 
the same vehemence would he dash to pieces this frailest toy of 
all, of which he used to rave so fondly. But that taste also 
will be forgotten when its object is no more. Well, he has no 
eye to value things as they deserve, and that nature has given 
to Varney. When Leicester shall be a sovereign, he will think 
as little of the gales of passion, through which he gained that 
royal port, as ever did sailor in harbor of the perils of a 


KENILWORTH. 364 


voyage. But these tell-tale articles must not remain here— 
they are rather too rich vails for the drudges who dress the 
chamber.” ) 

While Varney was employed in gathering together and put- 
ting them into a secret drawer of a cabinet that chanced to be 
open, he saw the door of Leicester’s closet open, the tapestry 
pushed aside, and the iwarl’s face thrust out, but with eyes so 
dead, and lips and cheeks so bloodless and pale, that he started 
at the sudden change. No sooner did his eyes encounter the 
Earl’s than the latter withdrew his head, and shut the door of 
the closet. This manceuvre Leicester repeated twice, without 
speaking a word, so that Varney began to doubt whether his 
brain was not actually affected by his mental agony. The 
third time, however, he beckoned, and Varney obeyed the 
signal. When he entered, he soon found his patron’s pertur- 
bation was not caused by insanity, but by the fellness of pur- 
pose which he entertained, contending with various contrary 
passions. They passed a full hour in close consultation ; after 
which the Earl of Leicester, with an incredible exertion, dressed 
himself, and went to attend his royal guest. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENTH. 


You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting 
With most admired disorder. 
MACBETH. 


IT was afterward remembered, that during the banquets and 
revels which occupied the remainder of this eventful day, the 
bearing of Leicester and Varney was totally different from 
their usual demeanor. Sir Richard Varney had been held 
rather a man of counsel and of action, than a votary of pleas- 
ure. Business, whether civil or military, seemed always to be 
his proper sphere; and while in festivals and revels, although 
he well understood how to trick them up and present them, his 
own part was that of a mere spectator; or if he exercised his 
wit, it was in a rough, caustic, and severe manner, rather as if 
he scoffed at the exhibition and the guests, than shared the 
common pleasure. 

But upon the present day his character seemed changed. 
He mixed among the younger courtiers and ladies, and ap- 
peared for the moment to be actuated bya spirit of light- 


368 KENILWORTH. 


hearted gayety, which rendered him a match for the liveliest. 
Those who had looked upon him as a man given up to graver 
and more ambitious pursuits, a bitter sneerer and passer of 
sarcasms at the expense of those, who, taking life as they find 
it, were disposed to snatch at each pastime it presents, now 
perceived with astonishment that his wit could carry as smooth 
an edge as their own, his laugh be as lively, and his brow as 
unclouded. By what art of damnable hypocrisy he could draw 
this veil of gayety over the black thoughts of one of the worst 
of human bosoms, must remain unintelligible to all but: his 
compeers, if any such ever existed ; but he was a man of extra- 
ordinaty powers, and those powers were unhappily dedicated 
in all their energy to the very worst of purposes. 

‘It was entirely different with Leicester. However habaete 
ated his mind usually was to play the part of a good courtier, 
and appear gay, assiduous, and free from all care but that of 
enhancing the pleasure of the moment, while his bosom inter: 
nally throbbed with the pangs of unsatisfied ambition, jealousy, 
or resentment, his heart had now a yet more dreadful guest, 
whose workings could not be overshadowed or suppressed; and 
you might read in his vacant eye and troubled brow, that his 
thoughts were far absent from the scenes in which he was 
“compelling himself to play a part. He looked, moved, and 
spoke, as if by a succession of continued efforts ; and it seemed 
as if his will had in some degree lost the promptitude of com- 
mand over the acute mind and goodly form of which it was 
the regent. His actions and gestures, instead of appearing 
the consequence of simple volition, seemed, like those of an 
automaton, to wait the revolution of some internal machinery 
ere théy could be performed; and his words fell from him 
piecemeal, interrupted, as if he had first to think what he was 
to’ say, then how it was to be said, and as if, after all, it was 
only by an effort of continued attention that he completed a 
sentence without forgetting both the one and the other. 

The singular effects which these distractions of mind pro- 
duced upon the behavior and conversation of the most'accom- 
plished courtier of England, as they were visible to the lowest 
and dullest menial who approached his person, could not escape 
the notice of the most intelligent princess of the age. Noris 
there the least doubt, that the alternate negligence and irregu 
larity of his manner, would have called down Elizabeth’s 
severe displeasure on the Earl of Leicester, had it not occurred 
to her to account for it, by supposing that the apprehension of 
that displeasure which she had expressed toward him with 
such vivacity that very morning, was dwelling upon the spirits 


KENILWORTH. 369 


of her favorite, and, spite of his efforts to the contrary, dis: 
cracted the usual graceful tenor of his mien, and the charms 
of his conversation. When this idea, so flattering to female 
vanity, had once obtained: possession of her mind, it proved a 
full and satisfactory apology for the numerous errors and 
mistakes of the Earl of Leicester; and the watchful circle 
around observed with astonishment, that, instead of resenting 
his repeated negligence, and want of even ordinary attention 
(although these were points on which she was usually extremely 
punctilious), the Queen sought, on the contrary, to afford him 
time and means to recollect himself, and deigned to assist him 
in doing so, with an indulgence which seemed altogether incon- 
sistent with her usual character. It was clear, however, that 
this could not last much longer, and that Elizabeth must 
finally put another and more severe construction on Leicester’s 
uncourteous conduct, when the Earl was summoned by Varney 
to speak with him in a different apartment. 

After having had the message twice delivered to him, he 
rose, and was about to withdraw, as it were by instinct—then 
stopped, and turning round, entreated permission of the Queen 
to absent himself for a brief space upon matters of pressing 
importance. 

‘Go, my lord,” said the Queen; ‘“‘we are aware our pres 
sence must occasion sudden and unexpected occurrences, which 
require to be provided for on the instant. Yet, my lord, as you 
would have us believe ourself your welcome and honored guest, 
we entreat you to think less of our good cheer, and favor us 
with more of your good countenance, than we have this day 
enjoyed ; for whether prince or peasant be the guest, the wel- 
come of the host will always be the better part of the entertain- 
ment. Go, my lord; and we trust to see your return with an 
unwrinkled brow, and those free thoughts which you are wont 
to have at the disposal of your friends.” 

Leicester only bowed low in answer to this rebuke, and 
retired. At the door of the apartment he was met by Varney, 
who eagerly drew him apart, and whispered in his ear, “ All is 
well!” 

‘¢ Has Masters seen her?” said the Earl. 

“He has, my lord; and as she would neither answer his 
queries, nor allege any reason for her refusal, he will give full 
testimony that she labors under a mental disorder, and may be 
best committed to the charge of her friends. ‘The opportunity 
is therefore free, to remove her as we proposed.” 

“‘ But Tressilian ?.” said Leicester. 
¢ He will not know of her departure for some time,” replied 


370 KENILWORTH. 


Varney; “it shall take place this very evening, and to-morrow 
he shall be cared for.” 

‘“‘ No, by my soul,” answered Leicester; “I will take ven- 
geance on him with mine own hand!” 

“You, my lord, and on so inconsiderable a man as Tres 
silian! No, my lord, he hath long wished to visit foreign parts. 
Trust him to me—I will take care he returns not hither to tel! 
tales.” ) 

“Not so, by Heaven, Varney!” exclaimed Leicester.—“ In 
considerable do you call an enemy, that hath had power to 
wound me so deeply, that my whole after life must be one scene 
of remorse and misery ?—No; rather than forego the right of 
doing myself justice with my hand on that accursed villain, I 
will unfold the whole truth at Elizabeth’s footstool, and let her 
vengeance descend at once on them and on myself.” 

Varney saw with great alarm that his lord was wrought up 
to such a pitch of agitation, that if he gave not way to him, he 
was perfectly capable of adopting the desperate resolution 
which he had announced, and which was instant ruin to all the 
schemes of ambition which Varney had formed for his patron 
and for himself. But the Earl’s rage seemed at once uncon- 
trolable and deeply concentrated; and while he spoke, his eyes 
shot fire, his voice trembled with excess of passion, and the 
light foam stood on his lip. 

His confidant made a bold and successful effort to obtain 
the mastery of him even in this hour of emotion.— My lord,” 
he said, leading him toa mirror, ‘‘ behold your reflection in 
that glass, and think if these agitated features belong to one 
who, in a condition so extreme, is capable of forming a resolu- 
tion for himself.” 

‘* What, then, wouldst thou make me?” said Leicester, 
struck at the change in his own physiognomy, though offended 
at the freedom with which Varney made the appeal. ‘‘Am I 
to be thy ward, thy vassal,—the property and subject of my 
servant ?” 

“No,” my lord,” said Varney, firmly, “but be master of 
yourself, and of your own passion. My lord, I your born ser 
vant, am shamed to see how poorly you bear yourself in the 
storm of fury. Go to Elizabeth’s feet, confess your marriage 
—impeach your wife and her parmour of adultery—and avow 
yourself, amongst all your peers, the whittol] who married 4 
country girl, and was cozened by her and her book-learned gal- 
lant.—Go, my lord—but first take farewell of Richard Varney, 
with all the benefits you ever conferred on him. He served 
the noble, the lofty, the high-minded Leicester, and was more 


KENILWORTH. 371 


proud of depending on him, than he would be of commanding 
thousands. But the abject lord who stoops to every adverse 
circumstance, whose judicious resolves are scattered like chaff 
before every wind of passion, him Richard Varney serves not. 
He is as much above him in constancy of mind, as beneath 
him in rank and fortune.” 

Varney spoke thus without hypocrisy, for, though the firm- 
ness of mind which he boasted was hardness and impenetrabi- 
lity, yet he really felt the ascendency which he vaunted ; while 
the interest which he actually felt in the fortunes of Leicester, 
gave unusual emotion to his voice and manner. 

Leicester was overpowered by his assumed superiority ; it 
seemed to the unfortunate Earl as if his last friend was about 
to abandon him. He stretched his hand toward Varney, as he 
uttered the words, ‘‘ Do not leave me—What wouldst thou have 
me do?” 

‘Be thyself, my noble master,” said Varney, touching the 
Earl’s hand with his lips, after having respectfully grasped it 
in his own; “be yourself, superior to those storms of passion 
which wreck inferior minds. Are you the first who has been 
cozened in love? ‘The first whom a vain and licentious woman 
has cheated into an affection, which she has afterward scorned 
and misused? And will you suffer yourself to be driven frantic, 
because you have not been wiser than the wisest men whom the 
world has seen? Let her be as if she had not been—let her 
pass from your memory, as unworthy of ever having held a 
place there. Let your strong resolve of this morning, which I 
have both courage, zeal, and means enough to execute, be like 
the fiat of a superior being, a passionless act of justice. She 
hath deserved death—let her die!” 

While he was speaking, the Earl held his hand fast, com- 
pressed his lips hard, and frowned, as if he labored to catch 
from Varney a portion of the cold, ruthless, and dispassionate 
firmness which he recommended. When he was silent, the 
Karl still continued to grasp his hand, until, with an effort at 
calm decision, he was able to articulate, ‘“‘ Be itso—she dies !— 
But one tear might be permitted.” 

“ Not one, my lord,” interrupted Varney, who saw by the 
quivering eye and convulsed cheek of his patron, that he was 
about to give way toa burst of emotion,—‘ Not a tear—the 
time permits it not—Tressilian must be thought of” 

“That indeed is a name,” said the Earl, “ to convert tears 
into blood. Varney, I have thought on this, and I have deter 
mined—neither entreaty nor argument shall move me—Tres- 
silian shall be my own victim.” 


342 KENILWORTH. 


“Tt is madness, my lord; but you are too mighty for me te 
bar your way to your revenge. Yet resolve at least to choose 
fitting time and opportunity, and to forbear him until these 
shall be found.” 

“Thou shalt order me in what thou wilt,” said Leicester, 
* only thwart me not in this.” 

“Then, my lord,’ said Varney, ‘I first request of you to lay 
aside the wild, suspected, and half-frenzied demeanor, which 
hath this day drawn the eyes of all the court upon you; and 
which, but for the Queen’s partial indulgence, which she hath 
extended toward you in a degree far beyond her nature, she 
had never given you the opportunity to atone for.” 

‘Have I indeed been so negligent?” said Leicester, as one 
who awakes from a dream; “‘I thought I had colored it well; 
but fear nothing, my mind is now eased—I am calm. My 
horoscope shall be fulfilled; and that it may be fulfilled, I will 
tax to the highest every faculty of my mind. Fear me not, I 
say,—I will to the Queen instantly—not thine own looks and 
language shall be more impenetrable than mine.—Hast thou 
aught else to say?” 

‘“‘T must crave your signet-ring,” said Varney, gravely, “in 
token to those of your servants whom I must employ, that I 
possess your full authority in commanding their aid.” 

Leicester drew off the signet-ring, which he commonly used, 
and gave it to Varney with a haggard and stern expression of 
countenance, adding only, in a low half-whispered tone, but with 
terrific emphasis, the words, “‘ What thou dost, do quickly.” 

Some anxiety and wonder took place, meanwhile, in the 
Presence hail, at the prolonged absence of the noble Lord of 
the Castle, and great was the delight of his friends, when they 
saw him enter as a man, from whose bosom, to all human 
seeming, a weight of care had been just removed. Amply did 
Leicester that day redeem the pledge he had given to Varney, 
who soon saw himself no longer under the necessity of main- 
taining a character so different from his own, as that which 
he had assumed in the earlier part of the day, and gradually 
relapsed into the same grave, shrewd, caustic observer of con 
versation and incident, which constituted his usual part in 
society. 

With Elizabeth, Leicester played his game as one, to whom 
her natural strength of talent, and her weakness in one or two 
particular points, were well known. He was too wary to ex- 
change on a sudden the sullen personage which he had played 
before he retired with Varney; but, on approaching her, it 
seemed softened into a melancholy, which had a touch of 


. 


KENILWORTH. a8 


tenderness in it, and which, in the course of conversing with 
Elizabeth, and as she dropped in compassion one mark of 
favor after another to console him, passed into a flow of 
affectionate gallantry, the most assiduous, the most delicate, 
the most insinuating, yet at the same time the most respectful, 
with which a Queen wasever addressed by asubject. Elizabeth 
listened, as in a sort of enchantment; her jealousy of power was 
lulled asleep ; her resolution to forsake all social or domestic ties, 
and dedicate herself exclusively to the care of her people, began 
to be shaken, and once more the star of Dudley culminated in 
the court horizon. 

But Leicester did not enjoy this triumph over nature, and 
over conscience, without its being imbittered to him, not only 
by the internal rebellion of his feelings against the violence 
which he exercised over them, but by many accidental circum- 
stances, which, in the course of the banquet, and during the 
subsequent amusements of the evening, jarred upon that nerve, 
the least vibration of which was agony. 

The courtiers were, for example, in the great hall, after 
having left the banqueting-room, awaiting the appearance of a 
splendid masque, which was the expected entertainment of this 
evening, when the Queen interrupted a wild career of wit, 
which the Earl of Leicester-was running against Lord Wil- 
loughby, Raleigh, and some other courtiers, by saying—‘*‘ We 
will impeach you of high treason, my lord, if you proceed in 
this attempt to slay us with laughter. And here comes a thing 
may make us all grave at his pleasure, our Jearned physician 
Masters, with news belike of our poor suppliant, Lady Varney 
—nay, my lord, we will not have you leave us, for this being 
a dispute betwixt married persons, we do not hold our own 
experience deep enough to decide thereon, without good coun- 
sel—How now, Masters, what think’st thou of the runaway 
bride 2?” 

The smile with which Leicester had been speaking, when the 
Queen interrupted him, remained arrested on his lips, as if it 
had been carved there by the chisel of Michael Angelo, or of 
Chantrey; and he listened to the speech of the physician with 
the same immovable cast of countenance. 

“The Lady Varney, gracious Sovereign,” said the court 
physician Masters, ‘‘is sullen, and would hold little conference 
with me, touching the state of her health, talking wildly of 
being soon to plead her own cause before your own presence, 
and of answering no meaner person’s inquiries.” 

‘Now, the heavens forefend!” said the Queen; “ we have 
already suffered from the misconstructions and broils which 


374 KENILWORTH. 


seem to follow this poor brain-sick lady wherever she comes.— 
Think you not so, my lord?” she added, appealing to Leicester 
with something in her look that indicated regret, even tenderly 
expressed, for their disagreement of that morning. Leicester 
compelled himself to bow low. The utmost force he could 
exert was inadequate to the further effort of expressing in words 
his acquiescence in the Queen’s sentiment. 

“You are vindictive,” she said, ‘“‘my lord; but we will find 
time and place to punish you. But once more to this same 
frouble-mirth, this Lady Varney—What of her health, Masters ?” 

“She is sullen, madam, as I already said,” replied Masters, 
‘and refuses to answer interrogatories, or be amenable to the 
authority of the mediciner. I conceive her to be possessed 
with a delirium, which I incline to term rather Aypochondria 
than pArenesis ; and I think she were best cared for by her 
husband in his own house, and removed from all this bustle of 
pageants, which disturbs her weak brain with the most fan- 
tastic phantoms.’ She drops hints as if she were some great 
person in disguise—some Countess or Princess perchance. God 
help them, such are often the hallucinations of these infirm 
persons !” 

‘“ Nay, then,” said the Queen, “‘ away with her with all speed. 
Let Varney care for her with fitting humanity; but let them 
rid the Castle of her forthwith. She will think herself lady of 
all, I warrant you. It is pity so fair a form, however, should 
have an infirm understanding.—What think you, my lord?” 

“It is pity indeed,” said the Earl, repeating the words like 
a task which was set him. 

“But, perhaps,” said Elizabeth, “ you do not join with us in 
our opinion of her beauty; and indeed we have known men 
prefer a statelier and more Juno-like form, to that drooping 
fragile one, that hung its head like a broken lily. Ay, men are 
tyrants, my lord, who esteem the animation of the strife above 
the triumph of an unresisting conquest, and, like sturdy cham-- 
pions, love best those women who can wage contest with them. 
—I could think with you, Rutland, that, give my lord of 
Leicester such a piece of painted wax fora bride, he would 
have wished her dead ere the end of the honeymoon.” 

As she said this, she looked on Leicester so expressively, 
fhat, while his heart revolted against the egregious falsehood, 
he did himself so much violence as to reply in a whisper, that 
Leicester’s love was more lowly than her majesty deemed, 
since it was settled where he could never command, but must 
ever obey 

The Queen blushed, and bid him be silent ; yet looked as 


KENILWORTH 378 


if she expected that he would not obey her commands. But at 
that moment the flourish of trumpets and kettledrums from a 
high balcony which overlooked the hall, announced the entrance 
of the maskers, and relieved Leicester from the horrible state 
of constraint and dissimulation in which the result of his own 
duplicity had placed him. 

The maske which entered consisted of four separate bands 
which followed each other at brief intervals, each consisting of » 
six principal persons and as many torch-bearers, and each rep- 
resenting one of the various nations by which England had at 
different times been occupied. 

The aboriginal Britons, who first entered, were ushered in 
by two ancient Druids, whose hoary hair was crowned with a 
chaplet of oak, and who bore in their hands branches of mistle- 
toe. The maskers who followed these venerable figures were 
succeeded by two Bards, arrayed in white, and bearing harps, 
which they occasionally touched, singing at the same time 
certain stanzas of an ancient hymn to Belus, or the Sun. The 
aboriginal Britons had been selected from amongst the tallest 
and most robust young gentlemen in attendance on the court. 
Their masks were accommodated with long shaggy beards and 
hair; their vestments were of the hides of wolves and bears; 
while their legs, arms, and the upper parts of their bodies, 
being sheathed in flesh-colored silk, on which were traced in 
grotesque lines representations of the heavenly bodies, and of 
animals and other terrestrial objects, gave them the lively ap- 
pearance of our painted ancestors, whose freedom was first 
trenched upon by the Romans. 

The sons of Rome, who came to civilize as well as to con- 
quer, were next produced before the princely assembly ; and 
the manager of the revels had correctly imitated the high crest 
and military habits of that celebrated people, accommodating 
them with the light yet strong buckler, and the short two-edged 
sword, the use of which had made them victors of the world. 
The Roman eagles were borne before them by two standard- 
bearers, who recited a hymn to Mars, and the classical warriors 
followed with the grave and haughty step of men who aspired 
at universal conquest. 

The third quadrille represented the Saxons, clad in the 
bearskins which they had brought with them from the German 
forests, and bearing in their hands the redoubtable battle-axes 
which made such havoc among the natives of Britain. They 
were preceded by two Scalds, who chanted the praises of Odin, 

Last came the knightiy Normans, in their mail-shirts and 


376 KENILWORTH. 


hoods of steel, with all the panoply of chivalry, and marshaled 
by two minstrels, who sung of war and ladies’ love. 

These four bands entered the spacious hall with the utmost 
order, a short pause being made, that the spectators might 
satisfy their curiosity as to each quadrille before the appearance 
of the next. ‘They then marched completely round the hall, in 
order the more fully to display themselves, regulating their 
steps to organs,.shalms, hautboys, and virginals, the music of 
the Lord Leicester’s household. At length the four quadrilles 
of maskers, ranging their torch-bearers behind them, drew up 
in their several ranks, on the opposite sides of the hall, so 
that the Romans confronting the Britons, and the Saxons the 
Normans, seemed to look on each other with eyes of wonder, 
which presently appeared to kindle into anger, expressed by 
menacing gestures. At the burst of a strain of martial music 
from the gallery the maskers drew their swords on all sides, 
and advanced against each other in the measured steps of a 
sort of Pyrrhic or military dance, clashing their swords against 
their adversaries’ shields, and clattering them against. their 
blades as they passed each other in the progress of the dance. 
It was a very pleasant spectacle to see how the various bands, 
preserving regularity amid motions which seemed to be totally 
irregular, mixed together, and then disengaging themselves, 
resumed each their own original rank as the music varied. 

In this symbolical dance were represented the conflicts which 
had taken place among the various nations which had anciently 
inhabited Britain. 

At length, after many mazy evolutions, which afforded great 
pleasure to the spectators, the sound of a loud-voiced trumpet 
was heard as if it blew for instant battle, or for victory won. 
The maskers instantly ceased their mimic strife, and collecting 
themselves under their original leaders, or presenters, for such 
was the appropriate phrase, seemed to share the anxious expec- 
tation which the spectators experienced concerning what was 
next to appear. 

The doors of the hall were thrown wide, and no less a per- 
son entered than the fiend-born Merlin, dressed in a strange 
and mystical attire, suited to his ambiguous birth and magical 
power. About him and behindhim fluttered or gamboled 
many extraordinary forms, intended to represent the spirits 
who waited to do his powerful bidding; and so much did this: 
part of the pageant interest the menials and others of the lower 
class then in the Castle, that many of them forgot even the 
reverence due to the Queen’s presence, so far as to thrust 
themselves into the lower part of the hall. 


KENILWORTH. 377 


The Earl of Leicester, seeing his officers had some difficulty 
to repel these intruders without more disturbance than was 
fitting where the Queen was in presence, arose and went him- 
self to the bottom of the hall; Elizabeth, at the same time, 
with her usual feeling for the common people, requesting that 
they might be permitted to remain undisturbed to witness the 
pageant. Leicester went under this pretext; but his real mo- 
tive was to gain a moment to himself, and to relieve his mind, 
were it but for one instant, from the dreadful task of hiding, 
under the guise of gayety and gallantry, the lacerating pangs 
of shame, anger, remorse, and thirst for vengeance. He im- 
posed silence by his look and sign upon the vulgar crowd, at 
the lower end of the apartment; but instead of instantly re- 
turning to wait on her Majesty, he wrapped his cloak around 
him, and mixing with the crowd, stood in some degree an un- 
distinguished spectator of the progress of the mask. 

Merlin having entered, and advanced into the midst of the 
hall, summoned the presenters of the contending hands around 
him by a wave of his magical rod, and announced to them, in 
a poetical speech, that the isle of Britain was now commanded 
by a Royal Maiden, to whom it was the will of fate that they 
should all do homage, and request of her to pronounce on the 
various pretensions which each set forth to be esteemed the 
pre-eminent stock, from which the present natives, the happy 
subjects of that angelical Princess, derived their lineage. 

In obedience to this mandate, the bands, each moving to 
solemn music, passed in succession before Elizabeth; doing 
her as they passed, each after the fashion of the people whom 
they represented, the lowest and most devotional homage, 
which she returned with the same gracious courtesy that had 
marked her whole conduct since she came to Kenilworth. 

The presenters of the several masks or quadrilles then 
alleged, each in behalf of his own troop, the reasons which they 
had for claiming pre-eminence over the rest; and when they 
had been all heard in turn, she returned them this gracious 
answer: ‘That she was sorry she was not better qualified to 
decide upon the doubtful question which had been propounded 
to her by the direction of the famous Merlin, but that it seemed 
to her that no single one of these celebrated nations could 
claim pre-eminence over the others, as having most contributed 
to form the Englishmen of her own time, who unquestionably 
derived from each of them some worthy attribute of his char- 
acter. Thus,” she said, ‘the Englishman had from the ancient 
Briton his bold and tameless spirit of freedom,—from the 
Roman his disciplined courage in war, with his love of letters 


378 KENILWORTH. 


and civilization in time of peace,—from the Saxon his wise and 
equitable laws,—and from the chivalrous Norman his love of 
honor and courtesy, with his generous desire for glory.” 

Merlin answered with readiness, that it did indeed require 
that so many choice qualities should meet in the English, as 
might render them in some measure the muster of the perfec- 
tions of other nations, since that alone could render them in 
some degree deserving of the blessings they enjoyed under the 
reign of England’s Elizabeth. 

The music then sounded, and the quadrilles, together with 
Merlin and his assistants, had begun to remove from the 
crowded hall, when Leicester, who was, as we have mentioned, 
stationed for the moment near the bottom of the hall, and con- 
sequently engaged in some degree in the crowd, felt himself 
pulled by the cloak, while a voice whispered in his ear, ‘‘ My 
lord, I do desire some instant conference with you,” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTH. 


How is ’t with me, wnen every noise appals me ? 
MACBETH. 


“T DESIRE some conference with you.” The words were 
simple in themselves, but Lord Leicester was in that alarmed 
and feverish state of mind when the most ordinary occurrences 
seem fraught with alarming import; and he turned hastily 
round to survey the person by whom they had been spoken. 
There was nothing remarkable in the speaker’s appearance, 
which consisted of a black silk doublet and short mantle, with 
a black vizard onhis face ; for it appeared he had been among 
the crowd of masks who had thronged into the hall in the 
retinue of Merlin, though he did not wear any of the extrava- 
gant disguises by which most of them were distinguished. 

“Who are you, or what do you want with me?” said 
Leicester, not without betraying by his accents, the hurried 
state of his spirits. 

“No evil, my lord,” answered the mask, “ but much good 
and honor, if you will rightly understand my purpose. « But I 
must speak with you‘more privately.” 

“T can speak with no nameless stranger,’ answered 
Leicester, dreading he knew not precisely what from the 
request of the stranger, “‘and those who are known to me 
must seek another and a fitter time to ask an interview.” 


KENILWORTH. 379 


; He would have hurried away, but the mask still detained 
im. | 

“Those who talk to your lordship of what your own honor 
demands, have a right over your time, whatever occupations 
you may lay aside in order to indulge them.” 

“How! my honor? Who dare impeach it?” said Lei- 
cester. 

“Your own conduct alone can furnish grounds for accusing 
it, my lord, and it is that topic on which I would speak with 
you.” 

“*You are insolent,” said Leicester, ‘and abuse the hos- 
pitable license of the time, which prevents me from having you 
punished, I demand your name?” 

“Ediiund Tressilian of Cornwall,” answered the mask. 
“My tongue has been bound by a promise for four-and-twenty 
hours,—the space is passed,—I now speak and do your lord- 
ship the justice to address myself first to you.” 

The thrill of astonishment which had penetrated to Leices- 
ter’s very heart at hearing that name pronounced by the voice 
of the man he most detested, and by whom he conceived him- 
self so deeply injured, at first rendered him immovable, but 
instantly gave way to such a thirst for revenge as the pilgrim 
in the desert feels for the water-brooks. He had but sense 
and self-government enough left to prevent his stabbing to the 
heart the audacious villain, who, after the ruin he had brought 
upon him, dared, with such unmoved assurance, thus to prac- 
tice upon him further. Determined to suppress for the 
moment every symptom of agitation, in order to perceive the 
full scope of Tressilian’s purpose, as well as to secure his own 
vengeance, he answered in a tone so altered by restrained 
passion as scarce to be intelligible,—‘‘ And what does Master 
Edmund Tressilian require at my hand?” 

“Justice, my lord,” answered Tressilian, calmly but firmly. 

“Justice,” said Leicester, “all men are entitled to—You, 
Master Tressilian, are peculiarly so, and be assured you shall 
have it.” ! 

““T expect nothing less from your nobleness,” answered 
Tressilian ; “but time presses, and I must speak with you 
to-night—May I wait on you in your chamber?” 

“No,” answered Leicester, sternly, ‘not under a roof, and 
that roof mine own—We will meet under the free cope of 
heaven.” 

“You are discomposed or displeased, my lord,” replied 
Tressilian ; “yet there is no occasion for distemperature. The 


380 KENILWORTH. 


place is equal to me, so you allow me one half hour of your 
time uninterrupted.” — . 

‘¢ A shorter time will, I trust, suffice,” answered Leicester— 
“ Meet me in the Pleasance, when the Queen has retired to 
her chamber.”’ 

“Enough,” said Tressilian, and withdrew; while a sort of 
rapture seemed for the moment to occupy the mind of 
Leicester. 

“ Heaven,” he said, “is at last favorable tome, and has put 
within my reach the wretch who has branded me with this deep 
ignominy—who has inflicted on me this cruel agony. I will 
blame fate no more, since I am afforded the means of tracing 
the wiles by which he means still further to practice on me, and 
then of at once convicting and punishing his villiany. To my 
task—to my task !—I will not sink under it now, since midnight 
at furthest will bring me vengeance.” 

While these reflections thronged through Leicester’s mind, 
he again made his way amid the obsequious crowd, which 
divided to give him passage, and resumed his place, envied 
and adinired, beside the person of his Sovereign. But, could 
the bosom of him thus admired and envied, have been laid open 
before the inhabitants of that crowded hall, with all its dark 
thoughts of guilty.ambition, blighted affection, deep vengeance, 
and conscious sense of meditated cruelty, crossing each other 
like spectres in the circle of some foul enchantress; which 
of them, from the most ambitious noble in the courtly circle, 
down to the most wretched menial, who lived by shifting of 
trenchers, would have desired to change characters with the 
favorite of Elizabeth, and the Lord of Kenilworth ! 

Yew tortures awaited him as soon as he had rejoined 
Elizabeth. 

“You come in time, my lord, ” she said, “‘ to decide a dispute 
between us ladies. Here has Sir Richard Varney asked our per- 
mission to depart from the castle with his infirm lady, having, 
as he tells us, your lordship’s consent to his absence, so he can 
obtain ours. Certes, we have no.will to withhold him from the 
affectonate charge of this poor young person—but you are to 
know that Sir Richard Varney hath this day shown himself so 
much captivated with these ladies of ours, that here is our 
Duchess of Rutland says, he will carry his poor insane wife no 
further than the lake, plunge her in, to tenant the crystal 
palaces that the enchanted nymph told us of, and return’a 
jolly widower ; to dry his tears, and to make up the loss among 
our train. How say you, my lord?—We have seen Varney 
under two or three different guises—you know what are his 


KENILWORTH. 381 


proper attributes—think you he is capable of playing his lady 
such a knave’s trick?” 

Leicester was confounded, but the danger was urgent, and a 
reply absolutely necessary. “The ladies,” he said, “think too 
lightly of one of their own sex, in supposing she could deserve 
such a fate, or too ill of ours, to think it could be inflicted upon 
an innocent female.” 

“Hear him, my ladies,” said Elizabeth; “like all his 
sex, he would excuse their cruelty by imputing fickleness to 
us.” 

“Say not ws, madam,” replied the Earl; ‘we say that 
meaner women, like the lesser lights of heaven, have revolutions 
and phases, but who shall impute mutability to the sun, or to 
Elizabeth ?” 

The discourse presently afterward assumed a less perilous 
tendency, and Leicester continued to support his part in it with 
spirit, at whatever expense of mental agony. So pleasing did 
it seem to Elizabeth, that the Castle bell had sounded midnight 
ere she retired from the company, a circumstance unusual in 
her quiet and regular habits of disposing of time. Her depart- 
ure was of course the signal for breaking up the company, 
who dispersed to their several places of repose, to dream 
over the pastimes of the day, or to anticipate those of the mor- 
row. 

The unfortunate Lord of the Castle, and founder of the 
proud festival, retired to far different thoughts. His direction 
to the valet who attended him, was to send Varney instantly to 
his apartment. The messenger returned after some delay, and 
informed him that an hour had elapsed since Sir Richard Var- 
ney had left the Castle, by the postern-gate, with three other 
persons, one of whom was transported in a horse-litter. 

‘How came he to leave the castle after the watch was 
set?” said Leicester; “I thought he went not: till day- 
break.” 

“He gave satisfactory reasons, as I eoxdetetanid)? said the 
domestic, “to the guard, and, as I hear, showed your Lordships 
signet ” 

‘“‘ 'True—true,” said the Earl; “‘ yet he has been hasty—Do 
any of his attendants remain behind?” 

“ Michael Lambourne, my lord,” said the valet, ‘was not 
to be found when Sir Richard Varney departed, and bis ‘mas- 
ter was much incensed at his absence. I saw him but now 
saddling his horse to gallop after lis master.” 

“Bid him come hither instantly,” said Leicester; “I have 4 
message to his master.” 


382 ; KENILWORTH. 


The servant left the apartment, and Leicester traversed it 
for some time in deep meditation—“ Varney is over-zealous,” 
he said, “‘ over-pressing—He loves me, I think—but he hath 
his own ends to serve, and he is inexorable in pursuit of them. 
If I rise he rises, and he hath shown himself already but. too 
eager to rid me of this obstacle which seems to stand betwixt 
me and sovereignty. Yet I willnot stoop to bear this disgrace. 
She shall be punished, but it shall be more advisably. I already 
feel, even in anticipation, that over-haste would light the flames 
of hell in my bosom. No—one victim is enough at once, and 
that victim already waits me.” 

He seized upon writing materials, and hastily traced these 
words :—“ Sir Richard Varney, we have resolved to defer the 
matter intrusted to your care, and strictly command you to pro- 
ceed no further in relation to our Countess, until our further 
order. We also command your instant return to Kenilworth, 
as soon as you have safely bestowed that with which you are 
intrusted. But if the safe placing of your present charge shall 
detain you longer than we think for, we command you, in that 
case, to send back our signet-ring by a trusty and speedy mes- 
senger, we having present need of the same. And requiring 
your strict obedience in these things, and commending you to 
God’s keeping, we rest your assured good friend and master, 


“ R, LEIGESTER. 


‘“‘ Given at our Castle of Ken..wortn, the tenth of July, in 
the year of Salvation one thousand five hundred and seventy- 
five.” 

As Leicester had finished and sealed this mandate, Michael 
Lambourne, booted up to mid-thigh, having his riding cloak 
girthed around him with a broad belt, and a felt-cap on his 
head, like that of a courier, entered his apartment, ushered in 
by the valet. 

‘‘ What is thy capacity of service?” said the Earl. 

“ Equerry to your lordship’s master of the horse,’”’ answered 
Lambourne, with his customary assurance. 

“Tie up thy saucy tongue, sir,’”’ said Leicester ; ‘‘ the jests 
that may suit Sir. Richard Varney’s presence, suit not mine. 
How soon wilt thou overtake thy master?” 

“In one hour’s riding, my lord, if man and horse hold 
good,”-said Lambourne, with an instant alteration of demean- 
or, from an approach to familiarity to the deepest respect. 
The Earl measured him with his eye from top to toe. 

“J have heard of thee,” he said; ‘“‘ men say thou art a 


KENILWORTH, 383 


prompt fellow in thy service, but too much given to brawling 
and to wassail to be trusted with things of moment.” 

“My lord,” said Lambourne, “I have been soldier, sailor, 
traveler, and adventurer; and these are all trades in wh ch 
men enjoy to-day, because they have no surety of to-morrow. 
But though I may misuse mine own leisure, I have never 
neglected the duty I owe my master.” 

“‘ See that it be so in this instance,” said Leicester, ‘‘and it 
shall do thee good. Deliver this letter speedily and carefully, 
into Sir Richard Varney’s hands.” 

“Does my commission reach no further?” said Lam- 
bourne. 

‘““ No,” answered Leicester, “ but it deeply concerns me that 
it be carefully as well as hastily executed.” 

“‘T will spare neither care nor horse-flesh,” answered Lam- 
bourne, and immediately took his leave. 

“‘ So, this is the end of my private audience, from which I 
hoped so much!” he muttered to himself, as he went through 
the long gallery, and down the back staircase. ‘Cogs bones! 
I thought the Ear] had wanted a cast of mine office in some 
secret intrigue, and it all ends in carrying a letter! Well, his 
pleasure shall be done, however, and as his lordship well says, 
it may do me good another time. ‘The child must creep ere he 
walk, and so must your infant courtier. I will have a look into 
this letter, however, which he hath sealed so sloven-like.” 
Having accomplished this, he clapped his hands together in 
ecstacy, exclaiming, ‘The Countess—the Countess !—I have 
the secret that shall make or mar me.—But come forth, Bay- 
ard,” he added, leading his horse into the courtyard, “for your 
flanks and my spurs must be presently acquainted.” 

Lambourne mounted accordingly, and left the Castle by the 
postern-gate, where his free passage was permitted, in con- 
sequence of a message to that effect left by Sir Richard 
Varney. 

As soon as Lambourne and the valet had left the apartment, 
Leicester proceeded to change his dress for a very plain one, 
threw his mantle around him, and taking a lamp in his hand, 
went by the private passage of communication toa small secret 
postern-door, which opened into the courtyard, near to the 
entrance of the Pleasance. His reflections were of a more 
calm and determined character than they had been at any late 
period, and he endeavored to claim, even in his own eyes, the 
character of a man more sinned against than sinning. 

_ “J have suffered the deepest injury,” such was the tenor of 
his meditations, “‘ yet I have restricted the instant revenge which 


384 KENILWORTH. 


was in my power, and have limited it to that which is manly 
and noble. But shall the union which this false woman has 
this day disgraced, remain an abiding fetter on me, to check 
me in the noble career to which my destinies inviteme? No! 
—there are other means of disengaging such ties, without un- 
loosing the cords of life. In the sight of God, I am no longer 
bound by the union she has broken. Kingdoms shall divide 
us—oceans roll bewixt us, and their waves, whose abysses 
have swallowed whole navies, shall be the sole depositories of 
the deadly mystery.” 

By such a train of argument did Leicester labor to recon- 
cile his conscience to the prosecution of plans of vengeance, so 
hastily adopted, and of schemes of ambition, which had be- 
come so woven in with every purpose and action of his life 
that he was incapable of the effort of relinquishing them ; until 
his revenge appeared to him to wear a face of justice, and even 
of generous moderation. 

In this mood the vindictive and ambitious Earl entered the 
superb precincts of the Pleasance, then illumined by the full 
moon. ‘The broad yellow light was reflected on all sides from 
the white freestone, of which the pavement, balustrades, and 
architectural ornaments of the place, were constructed; and 
not a single fleecy cloud was visible in the azure sky, so that 
the scene was nearly as light as if the sun had but just left the 
horizon. The numerous statues of white marble glimmered in 
the pale light, like so many sheeted ghosts just arisen from 
their sepulchres, and the fountains threw their jets into the air, 
as if they sought that their waters should be brightened by the 
moonbeams, ere they fell down again upon their basins in 
showers of sparkling silver. The day had been sultry, and 
the gentle night-breeze, which sighed along the terrace of the 
Pleasance, raised not a deeper breath than the fan in the hand 
of youthful beauty. The bird of summer night had built many 
a nest in the bowers of the adjacent garden, and the tenants 
now indemnified themselves for silence during the day, by a 
full chorus of their own unrivaled warblings, now joyous, now 
pathetic, now united, now resposive to each other, as if to 
express their delight in the placid and delicious scene to which 
they poured their melody. 

Musing on matters far different from the fall of waters, the 
gleam of moonlight, or the song of the nightingale, the stately 
Leicester walked slowly from the one end of the terrace to the 
other, his cloak wrapped around him and _ his sword under his 
arm, without seeing anything resembling the human form. 

‘‘ I. have been fooled by my own generosity,” he said, “ if J 


KENILWORTH. 385 


have suffered the villain to escape me—ay, and perhaps to go 
to the rescue of the Adulteress, who is so poorly guarded.” 

These were his thoughts, which were instantly dispelled, 
when turning to look back toward the entrance, he saw a 
human form advancing slowly from the portico, and darkening 
the various objects with its shadow, as passing them succes- 
sively, in its approach toward him. 

“Shall I strike ere I again hear his detested voice?” was 
Leicester’s thought, as he grasped the hilt of the sword, 
* But no! I will see which way his vile practice tends. I will 
watch, disgusting as it is, the coils and mazes of the loathsome 
snake, ere I put forth my strength and crush him.” 

His hand quitted the sword-hilt, and he advanced slowly 
toward Tressilian, collecting, for their meeting, all the self- 
possession he could command, until they came front to front 
with each other. 

Tressilian made a profound reverence, to which the Earl 
replied with a haughty inclination of the head, and the words, 
“You sought secret conference with me, sir—I am here and 
attentive.” 

‘My lord,” said Tressilian, I am so earnest in that which 
I have to say, and so desirous to find a patient, nay, a favor- 
able hearing, that I will stoop to exculpate myself from what- 
ever might prejudice your lordship against me. You think me 
your enemy?” 

“ Have I not some apparent cause?” answered Leicester, 
perceiving that Tressilian paused for a reply. 

“You do me wrong, my lord. I am a friend, but neither a 
dependant nor partisan of the Earl of Sussex, whom courtiers 
call your rival; and it issome considerable time since I ceased 
to consider either courts, or court-intrigues, as suited to my 
temper or genius.” | 

** No doubt, sir,” answered Leicester; ‘there are other 
occupations more worthy a scholar, and for such the world 
holds Master Tressilian—Lovehas his intrigues ao well as 
ambition.” 

*“‘] perceive, my lord,” replied Tressilian, “you give much 
weight to my early attachment for the unfortunate young per- 
son of whom Iam about to speak, and perhaps think I am 
prosecuting her cause. out of rivalry, more than a sense of 
justice.” 

“No matter for my thoughts, sir,” said the Earl; “ proceed. 
You have as yet spoken of yourself only ; an important and 
worthy subject doubtless, but which, perhaps, does not alto- 
gether so deeply concern me, that I should postpone my repose 


386 KENILWORTH. 


to hear it. Spare me further prelude, sir, and speak to the 
purpose, if indeed you have aught to say that concerns me. 
When you have done, I, in my turn, have something to com- 
municate.” 

“T will speak, then, without further prelude, my lord,” 
answered Tressilian; ‘‘ having to say that which, as it concerns 
your lordship’s honor, I am confident you will not think your 
time wasted in listening to. I have to request an account from 
your lordship of the unhappy Amy Robsart, whose history is 
too well known to you. I regret deeply that I did not at once 
take this course, and make yourself judge between me and the 
villain by whom she is injured. My lord, she extricated her- 
self from an unlawful and most perilous state of confinement, 
trusting to the effects of her own remonstrance upon her un- 
worthy husband, and extorted from me a promise, that I would 
not interfere in her behalf until she had used her own efforts 
to have her rights acknowledged by him.” 

“Ha!” said Leicester, ‘‘remember you to whom you 
speak ?”’ 

“T speak of her unworthy husband, my lord,” repeated 
Tressilian, ‘‘and my respect can find no softer language. The 
unhappy young woman is withdrawn from my knowledge, and 
sequestered in some secret place of this Castle,—if she be not 
transferred to some place of seclusion better fitted for bad 
designs. This must be reformed, my lord,—I speak it as 
authorized by her father,—and this ill-fated marriage must be 
avouched and proved in the Queen’s presence, and the lady 
placed without restraint, and at her own free disposal. And, 
permit me to say, it concerns no one’s honor that these most 
just demands of mine should be complied with, so much as it 
does that of your lordship.” 

The Earl stood as if he had been petrified, at the extreme 
coolness with which the man, whom he considered as having 
injured him so deeply, pleaded the cause of his criminal para- 
mour, as if she had been an innocent woman, and he a dis- 
interested advocate; nor was his wonder lessened by the 
warmth with which Tressilian seemed to demand for her the 
rank and situation which she had disgraced, and the advantages 
of which she was doubtless to share with the lover who advo- 
cated her cause with such effrontery.. Tressilian had been 
silent for more than a minute ere the Earl recovered from the 
excess of his astonishment; and, considering the preposses- 
sions with which his mind was occupied, there is little wonder 
that his passion gained the mastery of every other considera 
tion, “I have heard you, Master ‘Tressilian,” said he, “ with 


KENILWORTH. 387 


cut interruption, and I bless God that my ears were never 
before made to tingle by the words of so frontless a villain. 
The task of chastising you is fitter for the hangman’s scourge 
than the sword of a nobleman, but yet, Villain, draw and 
defend thyself!” 

As he spoke the last words, he dropped his mantle on the 
ground, struck Tressilian smartly with his sheathed sword, and 
instantly drawing his rapier, put himself into a posture of assault. 
The vehement fury of his language at first filled Tressilian, in his 
turn, with surprise equal to what Leicester had felt when he 
addressed him. But astonishment gave place to resentment, 
when the unmerited insults of his language were followed by a 
blow, which immediately put to flight every thought save that 
of instant combat. Tressilian’s sword was instantly drawn, 
and though perhaps somewhat inferior to Leicester in the use 
of the weapon, he understood it well enough to maintain the 
contest with great spirit, the rather that of the two he was for 
the time the more cool, since he could not help imputing 
Leicester’s conduct either to actual frenzy, or to the influence 
of some strong delusion. 

The rencontre had continued for several minutes, without 
either party receiving a wound, when, of a sudden, voices were 
heard beneath the portico, which formed the entrance of the 
terrace, mingled with the steps of men advancing hastily. ‘We 
are interrupted,” said Leicester to his antagonist; ‘“ follow 
me.” 


At the same time a voice from the portico said, ‘‘The 
jackanape is right—they are tilting here.” 

Leicester, meanwhile, drew off Tressilian into a’sort of recess 
behind one of the fountains, which served to conceal them, while 
six of the yeomen of the Queen’s guard passed along the middle 
walk of the Pleasance, and they could hear one say to the rest, 
“We shall never find them to-night among all these squirting 
funnels, squirrel-cages, and rabbit-holes; but if we light not 
on them, before we reach the further end, we will return, and 
mount a guard at the entrance, and so secure them till morning.” 

“‘ A proper matter,” said another, “the drawing of swords © 
so near the Queen’s presence, ay, and in her very palace, as 
*twere !—Hang it, they must be some poor drunken game-cocks 
fallen to sparring—’twere pity almost we should find them— 
the penalty is chopping off a hand, is it not ?—’twere hard to 
lose hand for handling a bit of steel, that comes so natural to 
one’s gripe.” 

‘Thou art a brawler thyself, George,” said another ; “ but 
take heed, for the law stands as thou sayest.” 


388 KENILWORTH. 


‘“« Ay,” said the first, “an act be not mildly construed ; for 
thou know’st ’tis not the Queen’s Palace, but my Lord of 
Leicester’s.” 

“Why, for that matter, the penalty may be as severe,” said 
another ; ‘‘for an our Gracious Mistress be Queen, as she is, 
God save her, my lord of Leicester is as good as King.” 

“ Hush! thou knave!” said a third; ‘“ how knowest thou 
who may be within hearing ?”’ 

They passed. on, making a kind of careless search, but 
seemingly more intent on their own conversation than bent on 
discovering the persons who had created the nocturnal dis- 
turbance. 

They had no sooner passed forward along the terrace, than 
Leicester, making a sign to ‘Tressilian to follow him, glided 
away in an opposite direction, and escaped through the portico 
undiscovered... He conducted ‘Tressilian to Mervyn’s. Tower, 
in which he was now again lodged ; and then, ere parting with 
him, said these words, “If thou hast courage to continue and 
bring to an end what is thus broken off, be near me when the 
court goes forth to-morrow—we shall find a time, and I will 
give you a signal when it is fitting.” 

“My lord,” said Tressilian, “ at another time I might have 
inquired the meaning of this strange and furious inveteracy 
against me. But you have laid that on my shoulder, which 
only blood can wash away; and were you as high as your 
proudest wishes ever carried you, | would have from you satis- 
faction for my wounded honor.” 

On these terms they parted, but the adventures of the night 
were not yet ended with Leicester. He was compelled to pass 
by Saintlowe’s. Tower, in order to gain the private passage 
which led to his own chamber, and in the entrance thereof he 
met Lord Hunsdon half clothed, and with a naked sword under 
his arm. 

‘Are you awakened, too, with this ’larum, my lord of Leices- 
ter?’’ said the old soldier. “’Tis well—By gog’s nails, the 
nights are as noisy as the day in this Castle of yours. Some 
two hours since I was awakened by the screams of that poor 
brain-sick Lady Varney, whom her husband was forcing away. 
I promise you, it required both your warrant and the Queen’s 
to keep me from entering into the game, and cutting that Var- 
ney of yours over the head ; and now there is a brawl down in 
the Pleasance, or what call you the stone terrace-walk, where 
all yonder gimcrack stand ? ” 

The first part of the old. man’s speech went through the 
Earl’s heart like a knife; to the last he answered that he him- 


KENILWORTH. 389 


self had heard the clash of swords, and had come down to 
take order with those who had been so insolent so near the 
Queen’s presence.” 

“Nay, then,” said Hunsdon, “TI will be glad of your lord- 
ship’s company.” 

Leicester was thus compelled to turn back with the rough 
old lord to the Pleasance, where Hunsdon heard from the 
yeomen of the guard, who were under his immediate command, 
the unsuccessful search they had made for the authors of the 
disturbance ; and bestowed for their pains some round dozen 
of curses on them, as lazy knaves and blind whoresons. — Leices- 
ter also thought it necessary to seem angry that no discovery 
hid been effected ; but at length suggested to Lord Huns- 
don, that after all it could only” be some foolish young men, 
who had been drinking healths pottle-deep, and who would be 
sufficiently scared by the search which had taken place after 
them. Hunsdon, who was himself attached to his cup, al- 
lowed that a pint-flagon might cover many of the follies which 
it had caused. “ But,” added he, “unless your lordship will be 
less liberal in your housekeeping, and restrain the overfiow of 
ale, and wine, and wassail, I foresee it will end in my having 
some of these good fellows into the guard-house, and treating 
them to a dose of the strappado—And with this warning, good- 
night to you,” 

Joyful at being rid of his company, Leicester took leave of 
him at the entrance of his lodging, where they had first met, 
and entering the private passage, took up the lamp which he 
_had left there, and by its expiring light found the way to his 
own apartment. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-NINTH. 


Room! room! for my horse will wince 
If he comes within so many yards of a prince ; 
For to tell you true and in rhyme, 
He was foal’d in Queen Elizabeth’s time ; 
When the great Earl of Lester 
In his castle did feast her. 
MASQUE OF OWLS—BEN JONSON. 


THE amusement with which Elizabeth and her court were 
next day to be regaled, was an exhibition by the true-hearted 
men of Coventry, who were to represent the strife between the 
English and the Danes, agreeably to a custom long preserved 


390 KENILWORTH. 


in their ancient borough, and warranted for truth by old 
histories and chronicles. In this pageant, one party of the 
townsfolk presented the Saxons and the other the Danes, and 
set forth, both in rude rhymes and with hard blows, the con- 
tentions of these two fierce nations, and the Amazonian 
courage of the English women, who, according to the story, 
were the principal agents in the general massacre of the 
Danes, which took place at Hocktide, in the year of God torz. 
This sport, which had been long a favorite pastime with the 
men of Coventry, had, it seems, been put down by the influence 
of some zealous clergyman of the more precise cast, who 
chanced to have considerable influence with the magistrates. 
But the generality of the inhabitants had petitioned the Queen 
that they might have their play -again, and be honored with 
permission to represent it before her Highness. And when the 
matter was canvassed in the little council, which usually at- 
tended the Queen for despatch of business, the proposal, 
although opposed by some of the stricter sort, found favor in 
the eyes of Elizabeth, who said that such toys occupied, 
without offence, the minds of many, who, lacking them, might 
find worse subjects of pastime ; and that their pastors, however 
commendable for learning and godliness, were somewhat too 
sour in preaching against the pastimes of their flocks; and so 
the pageant was permitted’ to proceed. 

Accordingly, after a morning repast, which Master Laneham 
calls an ambrosial breakfast, the principal persons of the court 
in attendance upon her Majesty, pressed to the Gallery Tower, 


to witness the approach of the two contending parties of. 


English and Danes; and after a signal had been given, the 
gate which opened in the circuit of the Chase was thrown wide 
to admit them. On they came, foot and horse; for some of 
the more ambitious burghers and yeomen had put themselves 
into fantastic dresses, imitating knights, in order to resemble 
the chivalry of the two different nations. However, to prevent 
fatal accidents, they were not permitted to appear on real 
horses, but.had only license to accoutre themselves with those 
hobbyhorses, as they are called, which anciently formed the 
chief delight of a morrice-dance, and which still are exhibited 
on the stage, in the grand battle fought at the conclusion of 
Mr. Bayes’s tragedy. The infantry followed in similar dis- 
guises. The whole exhibition was to be considered as a sort 


of antimask, or burlesque of the more stately pageants, in- 


which the nobility and gentry bore part in the show, and, to 
the best of their knowledge, imitated with accuracy the per- 
sonages whom they represented, The Hocktide play was of a 


ae 


KENILWORTH. 391 


different character, the actors being persons of inferior degree, 
and their habits the better fitted for the occasion, the more in- 
congruous and ridiculous that they were in themselves. <Ac- 
cordingly their array, which the progress of our tale allows us 
no time to describe, was ludicrous enough, and their weapons, 
though sufficiently formidable to deal sound blows, were long 
alder-poles instead of lances, and sound cudgels for swords ; 
and for fence, both cavalry and infantry were well equipped 
with stout headpieces and targets, both made of thick leather. 

Captain Coxe, that celebrated humorist of Coventry, whose 
library of ballads, almanacs, and penny histories, fairly wrapped 
up in parchment, and tied round for security with a piece of 
whipcord, remains still the envy of antiquaries, being himself 
the ingenious person under whose direction the pageant had 
been set forth, rode valiantly on his hobbyhorse before the 
bands of English, high trussed, saith Laneham, and brandish- 
ing his long sword, as became an experienced man of war, who 
had fought under the Queen’s father, bluff King Henry, at the 
siege of Boulogne. This chieftain was, as right and reason 
craved, the first to enter the lists, and, passing the Gallery at 
the head of his myrmidons, kissed the hilt of his sword to the 
Queen, and executed at the same time a gambade, the like 
whereof had never been practiced by two-legged hobby-horse. 
Then passing on with all his followers of cavaliers and infantry, 
he drew them up with martial skill at the opposite extremity 
of the bridge or tilt-yard, until his antagonists should be fairly 
prepared for the onset. 

This was no long interval; for the Danish cavalry and 1n- 
fantry, no way inferior to the English in number, valor, and 
equipment, instantly arrived, with the northern bagpipe blowing 
before them in token of their country, and headed by a cunning 
master of defence, only inferior to the renowned Captain Coxe, 
if to him, in the discipline of war. The Danes, as invaders, 
took their station under the Gallery Jower, and opposite to 
that of Mortimer; and, when their arrangements were com- 
pletely made, a signal was given for the encounter. 

Their first charge upon each other, was rather moderate, for 
either party had some dread of Leing forced into the lake. 
But as reinforcements came up on either side, the encounter 
grew from a skirmish into a blazing battle. They rushed upon 
one another, as Master Laneham testifies, like rams inflamed 
by jealousy, with such furious encounter, that both parties were 
often overthrown, and the clubs and targets made a most 
horrible clatter. In many instances that happened which had 
been dreaded by the more experienced warriors, who began the 


392 KENILWORTH. 


day of strife. The rails which defended the ledges of the 
bridge had been, perhaps on purpose, left but slightly fastened, 
and gave way under the pressure of those who thronged to the 
combat, so that the hot courage of many of the combatants 
received a sufficient cooling. These incidents might have 
occasioned more serious damage than became such an affray. 
for many of the champions who met with this mischance could 
not swim, and those who could were encumbered with their 
suits of leathern and paper armor; but the case had been 
provided for, and there were several boats in readiness to pick 
up the unfortunate warriors, and convey them to the dry land, 
where, dripping and dejected, they comforted themselves with 
hot ale and strong waters which were liberally allowed to 
them, without showing any desire to re-enter so desperate a 
conflict. 
Captain Coxe alone, that paraggn of Black-Letter Antiquaries, 
after twice experiencing, horse and man, the perilous leap from 
the bridge into the lake, equal to any extremity to which the 
favorite heroes of chivalry, whose exploits he studied in an 
abridged form, whether Amadis, Belianis, Bevis or his own 
Guy of Warwick, had ever been subjected to—Captain Coxe, 
we repeat, did alone, after two such mischances, rush again into 
the heat of conflict, his bases, and the foot-cloth of his hobby- 
horse dropping water, and twice reanimated by voice and 
example the drooping spirits of the English; so that at last 
their victory over the Danishinvaders became, as was just and 
reasonable, complete and decisive. Worthy he was to be ren- 
dered immortal by the pen of Ben Jonson, who, fifty years after- 
ward, deem that a mask, exhibited at Kenilworth, could 
be ushered in by none with so much propriety, as by the ghost 
of Captain Coxe, mounted upon his redoubted hobbyhorse. 
These rough rural. gambols may not altogether agree with 
the reader’s preconceived idea of an entertainment presented 
before Elizabeth, in whose reign letters revived with such bril- 
liancy, and whose court, governed bya female, whose sense of 
propriety was equal to her strength of mind, was no less distin- 
guished for delicacy and refinement than her councils for 
wisdom and fortitude. But whether from the political wish to 
seem interested in popular sports, or whether from a spark of 
old Henry’s rough masculine spirit, which Elizabeth sometimes 
displayed, it is certain the Queen laughed heartily at the imita- 
tion, or rather burlesque of chivalry, which was presented in 
the Coventry play. She called near her person the Earl of 
Sussex and Lord Hunsdon, partly perhaps to make amends to 
the former for the long and private audiences with which she 


KENILWORTH. 393 


had indulged the Earl of Leicester, by engaging him in con- 
versation upon a pastime, which better suited his taste than 
those pageants that were furnished forth from the stores of 
antiquity. The disposition which the Queen showed to laugh 
and jest with her military leaders, gave the Earl of Leicester 
the opportunity he had been watching for withdrawing from 
the royal presence, which to the court around, so well had he 
chosen his time, had the graceful appearance of leaving his rival] 
free access to the Queen’s person, instead of availing himself of 
his right as her landlord, to stand perpetually betwixt others 
and the light of her countenance. 

Leicester’s thoughts, however, had a far different object from 
mere courtesy ; for no sooner did he see the Queen fairly en- 
gaged in conversation with Sussex and Hunsdon, behind whose 
back stood Sir Nicholas Blount, grinning from ear to ear at 
each word which was spoken, then, making a sign to Tressilian, 
who, according to appointment, watched his motions at a little 
distance, he extricated himself from the press, and walking 
toward the Chase, made his way through the crowds of ordi- 
nary spectators, who, with open mouth, stood gazing on the 
battle of the English and the Danes. When he had accom- 
plished this, which was a work of some difficulty, he shot 
another glance behind him to see that Tressilian had been 
equally successful, and as soon as he saw him also free from 
the crowd, he led the way to a small thicket, behind which 
stood a lackey, with two horses ready saddled. He flung him- 
self on the one, and made signs to Tressilian to mount the 
other, who obeyed without speaking a single word. 

Leicester then spurred his horse, and galoped without stop- 
ping until he reached a sequestered spot, environed by lofty 
oaks, about a mile’s distance from the Castle, and in an oppo- 
site direction from the scene to which curiosity was drawing 
every spectator. He there dismounted, bound his horse to a 
tree, and only pronouncing the words, “ere there is no risk 
of interruption, laid his cloak across his saddle, and drew his 
sword. 

Tressilian imitated his example punctually, yet could not 
forbear saying, as he drew his weapon, ‘** My lord, as I have 
been known to many as one who does not fear death, when 
placed in balance with honor, methinks I may, without dero- 
gation, ask, wherefore, in the name of all that is honorable, 
your lordship has dared to offer me such a mark of disgrace, as 
places us on these terms with respect to each other ? nt 

“Tf you like not such marks of my scorn,” replied the Earl 


f ‘ 
f ° t f 


394 KENILWORTH. 


“betake yourself instantly to your weapon, lest I repeat the 
usage you complain of.” 

“Tt shall not need, my lord,” said Tressilian. ‘God 
judge betwixt us! and your blood, if you fall, be on your own 
head.” 

He had scarce completed the sentence when they instantly 
closed in combat. 

“ But Leicester, who was a perfect master of defence among 
all other exterior accomplishments of the time, had seen, on the 
preceding night, enough of Tressilian’s strength and skill, to 
make him fight with more caution than heretofore, and prefer 
a secure revenge toa hasty one. For some minutes they fought 
with equal skill and fortune, till, in a desperate lounge which 
Leicester successfully put aside, Tressilian exposed himself at 
disadvantage; and, in a subsequent attempt to close, the Earl 
forced his sword from his hand, and stretched him on the 
ground. With a grim smile he held the point of his rapier 
within two inches of the throat of his fallen adversary, and 
placing his foot at the same time upon his breast, bid him con- 
fess his villainous wrongs toward him, and prepare for death. 

“T have no villainy nor wrong toward thee to confess,” 
answered ‘Tressilian, “and am better prepared for death than 
thou. Use thine advantage as thou wilt, and may God forgive 
you. I have given you no cause for this.” 

“No cause!” exclaimed the Earl, “no cause !—but wh 
parley with such a slave >—Die a liar, as thou hast lived!” 

He had withdrawn his arm for the purpose of striking the 
fatal blow, when it was suddenly seized from behind. 

The Ear! turned in wrath to shake off the unexpected ob- 
stacle, but was surprised to find that a strange-looking boy had 
hold of his sword-arm, and clung to it with such tenacity of 
grasp, that he could not shake him off without a considerable 
struggle, in the course of which Tressilian had opportunity to 
rise and possess himself once more of his weapon. Leicester 
again turned toward him with looks of unabated ferocity, and 
the combat would have recommenced with still more despera- 
tion on both sides, had not the boy clung to Lord Leicester’s 
knees, and in a shrill tone implored him to listen one moment 
ere he prosecuted this quarrel. 

“ Stand up, and let me go,” said Leicester, “or by Heaven 
I will pierce thee with my rapier!—What hast thou to do to 
bar my way to revenge ?”’ . 

“Much—much !” exclaimed the undaunted boy; “ since 
my folly has been the cause of these bloody quarrels between 
you, and perchance of worse evils. Oh, if you would ever 


f 
f 


KENILWORTH. 398 


again enjoy the peace of an innocent mind, if you hope again 
to sleep in peace and unhaunted by remorse, take so much 
leisure as to peruse this letter, and then do as you list.” 

While he spoke in this eager and earnest manner, to which 
his singular features and voice gave a goblin-like effect, he held 
up to Leicester a packet, secured with a long tress of woman’s 
hair, of a beautiful light brown color. Enraged as he was, 
nay, almost blinded with fury to see his destined revenge so 
strangely frustrated, the Earl of Leicester could not resist this 
extraordinary supplicant. He snatched the letter from his 
hand—changed color as he looked on the superscription— 
undid, with faltering hand, the knot which secured it—glanced 
over the contents, and staggering back, would have fallen, had 
he not rested against the trunk of a tree, where he stood for an 
instant, his eyes bent on the letter, and his sword-point turned 
to the ground, without seeming to be conscious of the presence 
of an antagonist, toward whom he had shown little mercy, and 
who might in turn have taken him at advantage. But for such 
revenge Tressilian was too noble-minded—he also stood still in 
surprise, waiting the issue of this strange fit of passion, but 
holding his weapon ready to defend himself in case of need, 
against some new and sudden attack on the part of Leicester, 
whom he again suspected to be under the influence of actual 
frenzy. The boy, indeed, he easily recognized as his old ac- 
quaintance Dickon, whose face, once seen, was scarcely to be 
forgotten; but how he came hither at so.critical a moment, 
why his interference was so energetic, and above all, how it 
came to produce so powerful an effect upon Leicester, were 
questions which he could not solve. 

But the letter was of itself powerful enough to work effects 
yet more wonderful. It was that which the unfortunate Amy 
had written to her husband, in which she alleged the reasons 
and manner of her flight from Cumnor Place, informed him 
of her having made her way to Kenilworth to enjoy his pro- 
tection, and mentioned the circumstances which had compelled 
her to take refuge in Tressilian’s apartment, earnestly request: 
ing he would, without delay, assign her a more suitable asylum. 
The letter concluded with the most earnest expressions. of 
devoted attachment, and submission to his will in all things, 
and particularly respecting her situation and place of residence, 
conjuring him only that she might not be placed under .the 
guardianship or restraint of Varney. 

The letter dropped from Leicester’s hand when he had per- 
used it. ‘Take my sword,” he said, “ Tressilian, and pierce my 
heart, as I would but now have pierced yours !”’ 


306 KENILWORTH. 


“My lord,” said Tressilian, “you have done me great wrong ; 
but something within my breast ever whispered that it was by 
egregious error.” 

“ Error, indeed !”’ said Leicester, and handed him the letter ; 
“T have been made to believe a man of honor a villain, and the 
best and purest of creatures a false profligate—Wretched boy, 
why comes this letter now, and where has the bearer lingered ?” 

“‘T dare not tell you, my lord,” said the boy, withdrawing, as 
if to keep beyond his reach —“but here comes one who was 
the messenger.” 

Wayland at the same moment came up; and, interrogated 
by Liecester, hastily detailed all the circumstances of his escape 
with Amy,—the fatal practices which had driven her to flight, 
—and her anxious desire to throw herself under the instant 
protection of her husband,—pointing out the evidence of the 
domestics of Kenilworth, “ who could not,” he observed, “ but 
remember her eager inquiries after the Earl of Leicester on her 
first arrival.” 

“The villains!” exclaimed Leicester ; ‘but oh, that worst of 
villains, Varney !—and she is even now in his power!” 

“ But not, I trust in God,” said Tressilian, ‘with any com- 
mands of fatal import?” 

“No, no, no!” exclaimed the Earl hastily—“ I said some- 
thing in madness—but it was recalled, fully recalled, by a 
hasty messenger; and she is now—she must now be safe.” 

“Yes,” said Tressilian, ““she must be safe, and I must be 
assured of her safety. My own quarrel with you is ended, my 
lord; but there is another to begin with the seducer of Amy 
Robsart, who has screened his guilt under the cloak of the in- 
famous Varney.” 

“The seducer of Amy!” replied Leicester, with a voice like 
thunder; “say her husband!—her misguided, blinded, most 
unworthy husband !—She is as surely Countess of Leicester as 
I am belted Earl. Nor can you, sir, point out that manner of 
justice which I will not render her at my own free will. I need 
scaree say, I fear not your compulsion.” 

‘The generous nature of ‘Tressilian was instantly turned fret 
consideration of anything personal to himself, and centred at 
once upon Amy’s welfare. He had by no means undoubting 
confidence in the fluctuating resolutions of Leicester, whose 
mind seemed to him agitated beyond the government of calm 
reason ; néither did he, notwithstanding the assurances he had 
received, think Amy safe in the hands of his dependants. “ My 
lord,” he said calmly, “ I mean you no offence, and am far from 
seeking a quarrel, But my duty toSir Hugh Robsart compels 


KENILWORTH. 394 


me to carry this matter instantly to the Queen, that the Count- 
ess’s rank may be acknowledged in her person.” 

* You shall not need, sir,” replied the Earl haughtily; “do 
no dare to interfere. No voice but Dudley’s shall proclaim 
Dudley’s infamy—to Elizabeth herself will I tell it, and thep 
for Cumnor Place with the speed of life and death!” 

So saying, he unbound his horse from the tree, threw him 
self into the saddle, and rode at full gallop toward the Castle. 

“Take me before you, Master Tressilian,” said the boy, 
seeing Tressilian mount in the same haste—‘‘ my tale is not all 
told out, and I need your protection.” 

‘Tressilian complied, and followed the Earl, though at a less 
furious rate. By the way the boy confessed, with much con- 
trition, that in resentment at Wayland’s evading all his in- 
quiries concerning the lady, after Dickon conceived he had in 
various ways merited his confidence, he had purloined from him 
in revenge the letter with which Amy had intrusted him for the 
Earl of Leicester. His purpose was to have restored it to him 
that evening, as he reckoned himself sure of meeting with him, 
in consequence of Wayland’s having to perform the part of 
Arion in the pageant. He was indeed something alarmed 
when he saw to whom the letter was addressed; but he argued 
that, as Leicester did not return to Kenilworth until that even- 
ing, it would be again in the possession of the proper messen- 
ger, as soon as, in the nature of things, it could possibly be 
delivered. But Wayland came not to the pageant, having been 
in the interim expelled by Lambourne from the Castle, and the 
boy not being able to find him, or to get speech of Tressilian, 
and finding himself in possession of a letter addressed to no 
less a person than the Earl of Leicester, became much afraid 
of the consequences of his frolic. The caution, and indeed the 
alarm, which Wayland had expressed respecting Varney and 
Lambourne, led him to judge, that the letter must be designed 
for the Earl’s own hand, and that he might ‘prejudice the lady 
by giving it to any of the domestics. He made an attempt or 
two to obtain an audience of Leicester, but the singularity of 
his features, and’the meanness of his appearance, occasioned 
his being always repulsed by the insolent menials whom he 
applied to for that purpose. Once, indeed, he had nearly suc- 
ceeded, when, in prowling about, he found in the grotto the 
casket which he knew to belong to the unlucky Countess, having 
seen it on her journey; for nothing escaped his prying eye. 
Having strove in vain to restore it either to Tressilian or the 
Countess, he put it into the hands, as we have seen, of Leices: 


398 KENILWORTH. 


ter himself, put unfortunately he did not recegnize him in his 
disguise. 

At length the boy thought he was on the point of succeed- 
ing, when the Earl came down to the lower part of the hall ; but 
just as he was about to accost him, he was prevented by Tres- 
silian. As sharp in the ear as in wit, the boy heard the appoint- 
ment settled betwixt them, to take place in the Pleasance, and 
resolved to add a third to the party, in hopes that, either in 
coming or in returning, he might find an opportunity of deliver- 
ing the letter to Leicester; for strange stories began to flit 
among the domestics, which alarmed him for the lady’s safety. 
Accident, however, detained Dickon a little behind the Earl, 
and as he reached the arcade he saw them engaged in combat; 
in consequence of which he hastened to alarm the guard, having 
little doubt that what bloodshed took place betwixt them might 
arise out of his own frolic. Continuing to lurk in the portico, 
he heard the second appointment which Leicester, at parting, 
assigned to Tressilian, and was keeping them in view during the 
encounter of the Coventry men, when, to his surprise, he rec- 
ognized Wayland in the crowd, much disguised, indeed, but 
not sufficiently so to escape the prying glance of his old com- 
rade. They drew aside out of the crowd to explain their situa- 
tion to each other. The boy confessed to Wayland what we 
have above told, and the artist in return, informed him that his 
deep anxiety for the fate of the unfortunate lady had brought 
him back to the neighborhood of the Castle, upon his learning 
that morning at a village about ten miles distant that Varney 
and Lambourne, whose violence he dreaded, had both left 
Kenilworth over-night. 

While they spoke, they saw Leicester and Tressilian separate 
themselves from the crowd, dogged them until they mounted 
their horses, when the boy, whose speed of foot has been be- 
fore mentioned, though he could not possibly keep up with 
them, yet arrived, as we have seen, soon enough to save Tres- 
silian’s life. The boy had just finished his tale when they 
arrived at the Gallery Tower. 


ue ae KENILWORTH. 399 


CHAPTER FORTIETH. 


High o’er the eastern steep the sun is beaming, 
And darkness flies with her deceitful shadows ;— 
So truth prevails o’er falsehood. 

OLD PLay. 


As Tressilian rode along the bridge, lately the scene of so 
much riotous sport, he could not but observe that men’s coun- 
tenances had singularly changed during the space of his brief 
absence. The mock fight was over, but the men, still habited 
in their masking suits, stood together in groups, like the in- 
habitants of a city who had been just startled by some strange 
and alarming news. 

When he reached the base-court, appearances were the 
same—domestics, retainers, and under officers, stood together 
and whispered, bending their eyes toward the windows of the 
great hall with looks which seemed at once alarmed and 
mysterious. 

Sir Nicholas Blount was the first person of his own par- 
ticular acquaintance Tressilian saw, who left him no time to 
make inquiries, but greeted him with, “God help thy heart, 
Tressilian, thou art fitter for a clown than a courtier—thou 
canst not attend as becomes one who follows her Majesty.— 
Here you are called for, wished for, waited for—no man but 
you will serve the turn; and thither you come with a misbe- 
gotten brat on thy horse’s neck, as if thou wert dry nurse to 
some sucking devil, and wert just returned from airing.” 

“Why, what is the matter?” said Tressilian, letting go the 
boy who sprung to ground like a feather, and himself dismount- 
ing at the same time. 

** Why, no one knows the matter,” replied Blount ; ‘* I can- 
not smell it out myself, though I have a nose like other court- 
iers. Only my Lord of Leicester has galloped along the bridge, 
as if he would have rode over all in his passage, demanding an 
audience of the Queen, and is closeted even now with her, and 
Burleigh, and Walsingham—and you are called for—but 
whether the matter be treason or worse no one knows.” 

““He speaks true, by Heaven!” said Raleigh, who that 
instant appeared; “you must immediately to the Queen’s 
presence.” 

“ Be not rash, Raleigh,” said Blount, “ remember his boots 
—For Heaven’s sake, go to my chamber, dear ‘Tressilian, and 


400 KENILWORTH. 


don my new bloom-colored silken hose—I have worn them but 
twice.” 

‘“ Pshaw !”? answered Tressilian ; “do thou take care of this 
boy, Blount; be kind to him, and look he escapes you not— 
much depends on him.” 

So saying, he followed Raleigh hastily, leaving honest 
Blount with the bridle of his horse in one hand, and the boy in 
the other. Blount gave a long look after him. 

‘“‘ Nobody,” he said, “ calls me to these mysteries—and he 
leaves me here to play horse-keeper and child-keeper at once. 
I could excuse the one, for I love.a good horse naturally ; but 
to be plagued with a bratchet whelp.—Whence come ye, my 
fair-favored little gossip?” 

‘‘ From the Fens,” answered the boy. 

** And what didst thou learn there, forward imp?” 

“To catch gulls, with their webbed feet and yellow stock- 
ings,” said the boy. 

‘ Umph!” said Blount, looking down on his own immense 
roses—‘ Nay, then the devil take him asks thee more ques- 
tions.” 

Meantime Tressilian traversed the full length of the great 
hall, in which the astonished courtiers formed various groups, 
and were whispering mysteriously together, while all kept their 
eyes fixed on the door, which led from the upper end of the 
hall in the Queen’s withdrawing apartment. Raleigh pointed 
to the door—Tressilian knocked, and was instantly admitted. 
Many a neck was stretched to gain a view into the interior of 
the apartment; but the tapestry which covered the door on the 
inside was dropped too suddenly to admit the slightest gratifi- 
cation of curiosity. 

Upon entrance, Tressilian found himself, not without a strong 
palpitation of heart, in the presence of Elizabeth, who was 
walking to and fro in a violent agitation, which she seemed to 
scorn to conceal, while two or three of her most sage and con- 
fidential counselors exchanged anxious looks with each other, 
but delayed speaking till her:wrath had abated. Before the 
empty chair of state in which she had been seated, and which 
was half pushed aside by the violence with which she had 
started from it, knelt Leicester, his arms crossed, and his brows 
bent on the ground, still and motionless as the effigies upon a 
sepulchre. Beside him stood the Lord Shrewsbury, then Earl 
Marshal of England, holding his baton of | office—the Earl’s 
sword was unbuckled, and lay before him on the floor. 

“ Ho, sir'!’’ said the Queen, coming close up to Tressilian, and 
stamping on the floor with the action and manner of Henry 


KENILWORTH. 40. 


himself ; “ you knew of this fair work—you are an accomplice 
in this deception which has been practiced on us—yow have 
been a main cause of our doing injustice?” Tressilian dropped 
on his knee before the Queen, his sense showing him the risk of 
attempting any defence at that moment of irritation. ‘ Art 
dumb, sirrah!” she continued; “thou know’st of this affair, 
dost thou not?” 

“‘ Not, gracious madam, that this poor lady was Countess of 
Leicester.” 

“Nor shall any one know her for such,” said Elizabeth. 
“Death of my life! Countess of Leicester !—I say Dame Amy 
Dudley—and well if she hath not cause to write herself widow 
of the traitor Robert Dudley.” 

“Madam,” said Leicester, “do with me what it may be your 
will to do—but work no injury on this gentleman—he hath in 
no way deserved it.” 

“ And will he be the better for thy intercession,” said the 
Queen, leaving Tressilian, who slowly arose, and rushing to 
Leicester, who continued kneeling—*“ the better for thy inter- 
cession, thou doubly false—thou doubly forsworn ?—of thy 
intercession, whose villainy hath made me ridiculous to my 
subjects, and odious to myself ?—I could tear out mine eyes for 
their blindness ! ” 

Burleigh here ventured to interpose. 

“Madam,” he said, “remember that you are a Queen— 
Queen of England—mother of your people. Give not way to this 
wild storm of passion.” 

Elizabeth turned round to him, while a tear actually twinkled 
in her proud and angry eye. “ Burleigh,” she said, “ thou art a 
statesman—thou dost not, thou canst not, comprehend half the 
scorn—half the misery, that man has poured on me!” 

With the utmost caution—with the deepest reverence, 
Burleigh took her hand at the moment he saw her heart was 
at the fullest, and led her aside to an oriel window, apart from 
the others. 

“Madam,” he said, “‘ I ama statesman, but I am also aman 
~—a man already grown old in your councils, who have not, and 
cannot have a wish on earth but your glory and happiness—I 
pray you to be composed.” 

“ Ah, Burleigh,” said Elizabeth, “thou little knowest ’’— 
here her tears. fell over her cheeks in despite of her. 

“1 do—I do know, my honored sovereign. Oh, beware that 
you lead not others to guess that. which they’ know not !” 

“Ha!” said Elizabeth, pausing as if a new train of thought 
had suddenly shot across her brain. “ Burleigh, thou art right 


f 


402 KENILWORTH. 


-—thou art right—anything but disgrace—anything but a con 
fession of weakness—anything rather than seem the cheated— 
slighted——’Sdeath! to think on it is distraction!” 

‘“‘ Be but yourself, my Queen,” said Burleigh ; “and soar far 
above a weakness, which no Englishman will ever believe his 
Elizabeth could have entertained, unless the violence of her 
disappointment carries a sad conviction to his bosom.” 

““What weakness, my lord?” said Elizabeth, haughtily ; 
“would you too insinuate that the favor in which I held 
yonder proud traitor, derived its source from aught ”’—But here 
she could no longer sustain the proud tone which she had 
assumed, and again softened as she said, “ But why should I 
strive to deceive even thee, my good and wise servant!” 

Burleigh stooped to kiss her hand with affection, and—rare in 
the annals of courts—a tear of true sympathy dropped from the 
eye of the minister on the hand of his sovereign. 

It is probable that the consciousness of possessing this sym- 
pathy, aided Elizabeth in supporting her mortification, and 
suppressing her extreme resentment; but she was still more 
moved by fear that her passion should betray to the public the 
affront and the disappointment, which, alike as a woman and 
a Queen, she was so anxious to conceal. She turned from 
Burleigh, and sternly paced the hall till her features had 
recovered their usual dignity, and her mien its wonted stateli- 
ness of regular motion. 

“Our Sovereign is her noble self once more,’”’ whispered 
Burleigh to Walsingham; ‘‘mark what she does, and take 
heed you thwart her not.” 

She then approached Leicester, and said, with calmness, 
““My Lord Shrewsbury, we discharge you of your prisoner. 
My Lord Leicester, rise and take up your sword—a quarter 
of an hour’s restraint, under the custody of our Marshal my 
lord, is, we think, no high penance for months of falsehood 
practiced upon us. We will now hear the progress of this 
affair.”—She then seated herself in her chair, and said, *‘ You, 
Tressilian, step foward, and say what you know.” 

Tressilian told his story, generously suppressing as much as 
he could what affected Leicester, and saying nothing of their 
having twice actually fought together. It is very probable 
that, in doing so, he did the Earl good service ; for had the 
Queen at that instant found anything on account of which she 
could vent her wrath upon him without laying open sentiments 
of which she was ashamed, it might have fared hard within him. 
She paused when Tressilian had finished his tale. 

“We will take that Wayland,” she said “into our own ser 


9 


KENILWORTH. 403 


vice, and Blalte the boy in our Seth eeanyorics for instruction, that 
he mayin future use discretion toward letters. For you, 
Tressilian, you did wrong in not communicating the whole 
truth to us, and your promise not to do so was both imprudent 
and undutiful. Yet, having given your word to this unhappy 
lady, it was the part of a man and a gentleman to keep it; 
and on the whole, we esteem you for the character you have 
sustained in this matter.—My Lord of Leicester, it is now your 
turn to tell us the truth, an exercise to which you seem of late 
to have been too much a stranger.’ 

Accordingly, she extorted, by successive questions, the whole 
history of his first acquaintance with Amy Robsart—their 
marriage—his jealousy—the causes on which it was founded, 
and many particulars besides. Leicester’s confession, for such 
it might be called, was wrenched from him piecemeal, yet was 
upon the whole accurate, excepting that he totally omitted to 
mention that he had, by implication, or otherwise, assented to 
Varney’s designs upon the life of his Countess. Yet the con- 
sciousness of this was what at that moment lay nearest to his 
heart ; and although he trusted in great measure to the very 
positive counter-orders which he had sent by Lambourne, it was 
his purpose to set out for Cumnor Place, in person, as soon as 
he should be dismissed from the presence of the Queen, who, he 
concluded, would presently leave Kenilworth. 

But the Earl reckoned without his host. It is true, his 
presence and his communication were gall and wormwood to 
his once partial mistress. But, barred form every other and 
more direct mode of revenge, the Queen perceived that she 
gave her false suitor torture by these inquiries, and dwelt on 
them for that reason, no more regarding the pain which she 
herself experienced, than the savage cares for the searing of 
bis own hands by grasping the hot pincers with which he tears 
the flesh of his captive enemy. 

At length, however, the haughty lord, like a deer that turns 
to bay, gave intimation that his patience was failing. ‘‘ Madam,” 
he said, “I have been much to blame—more than even your 
just resentment has expressed. Yet, madam, let me say, that 
my guilt, if it be unpardonable, was not unprovoked ; and that, 
if beauty and ae RRE dignity could seduce the frail 
heart of a human being, I might plead both, as the causes of 
my concealing this secret from your Majesty.” 

The Queen was so much struck with this reply, which Leices- 
ter took care should be heard by no one but herself, that she 
was for the moment silenced, and the Earl had the temerity ta 
pursue his advantage. ‘Yous Grace, who has pardoned so 


404 KRENILWOR Ti. 


much, will excuse my throwing myself on your royal mercy for 
those expressions, which were yester-morning accounted but a 
light offence.” 

The Queen fixed her eyes on him while she replied, “ Now, 
by Heaven, my lord, thy effrontery passes the bounds of belief, 
as well as patience! But it shall avail thee nothing.—What, 
ho! my lords, come all and hear the news—My Lord of Leices. 
ter’s stolen marriage has cost me a husband, and England 4 
King. His lordship is patriarchal in his tastes—one wife at 
time was insufficient, and he designed us the honor of his left 
hand. Now, is not this too insolent,—that I could not grace 
him with a few marks of court-favor, but he must presume to 
think my hand and crown at his disposal ?—You, however, 
think better of me; and I can pity this ambitious man, as I 
could a child, whose bubble of soap has burst between his 
hands. We go to the presence-chamber—my Lord of Leices- 
ter, we command your close attendance on us.” 

Ail was eager expectation in the hall, and what was the 
universal astonishment, when the Queen said to those next 
her, “The revels of Kenilworth are not yet exhausted, my 
lords and ladies—we are to solemnize the noble owner’s 
marriage.” 

There was a universal expression of surprise, 

“It is true, on our royal word,” said the Queen ; “ he hath 
kept this a secret even from us, that he might surprise ‘us with 
itat this very place and time. I see you are dying of curiosity 
to know the happy bride—It is Amy Robsart, the same who, ta 
make up the May-game yesterday, figured in the pageant as the 
wife of his servant Varney.” 

‘For God’s sake, madam,” said the Earl, approaching her 

with a mixture of humility, vexation, and shame in his coun. 
tenance, and speaking so low asto be heard by no one else, 
‘“‘ take my head, as you threatened in your anger, and spare me 
these taunts! Urge not a falling man—tread not on a crushed 
worm,” 
“A worm, my lord,” said the Queen, in the same tone; 
“nay, a snake is the nobler reptile, and the more exact similt 
tude—the frozen snake you wot of, which was warmed in a 
certain bosom ’’——— 

“For your own sake—for mine, madam,” said the Farl— 
“while there is yet some reason left in me’””—— 

“Speak aloud, my lord,” said Elizabeth, “and at further 
distance, so please you—your breath thaws our ruff. What 
have you to ask of us?” 


KENILWORTH. | 408 


*‘ Permission,” said the unfortunate Earl, humbly, “ to travel 
to Cumnor Place. ” 

“To fetch home your bride belike ?—Why, ay,—that is but 
right—for, as we have heard, she is indifferently cared for there. 
But, my lord, you go not in person—we have counted upon 
passing certain days in this Castle of Kenilworth, and it were 
slight courtesy to leave us without a landlord during our resi- 
dence here. Underyour favor, we cannot think to incur such 
disgrace in the eyes of our subjects. ‘Tressilian shall go to 
Cumnor Place instead of you, and with him some gentleman 
who hath been sworn of our chamber, lest my Lord of Leicester 
should be again jealous of his old rival— Whom wouldst thou 
have to be in commission with thee, Tressilian ?” 

Tressilian, with humble deference, suggested the name of 
Raleigh. 

“Why, ay,’ said the Queen; ‘so God ha’ me, thou hast 
made a good choice. He is a young knight besides, and to 
deliver a lady from prison is an appropriate first adventure,— 
Cumnor Place is little better than a prison, you are to know, 
my lords and ladies.—Besides, there are certain faitours: there 
whom we would willingly have in fast keeping. You will 
furnish them, Master Secretary, with the warrant necessary to 
secure the bodies of Richard Varney and the foreign Alasco, 
dead or alive. Take a sufficient force with you, gentlemen— 
bring the lady here in all honor—lose no time, and God be 
with you !” 

They bowed and left the presence. 

Who shall describe how the rest of that day was spent at 
Kenilworth ? The Queen, who seemed to have remained there 
for the sole purpose of mortifying and taunting the Earl of 
Leicester, showed herself as skilful in that female art of ven. 
geance, as she was in the science of wisely governing her people. 
The train of state soon caught the signal, and, as he walked 
among his own splendid preparations, the Lord of Kenilworth, 
in his own Castle, already experienced the lot of a disgraced 
courtier, in the slight regard and cold manners of alienated 
friends, and the ill-concealed triumph of avowed and open 
enemies. Sussex, from his natural military frankness of 
disposition, Burleigh and Walsingham, from their penetrating 
and prospective sagacity, and some of the ladies, from the 
compassion of their sex, were the only persons in the crowded 
court who retained toward him the countenance they had 
borne in the morning. 

So much had Leicester been accustomed to consider court- 
favor as the principle object of his life, that all other sensations 


406 | KENILWORTH. 


were, for the time, lost inthe agony which his haughty spirit 
felt at the succession of petty insults and studied neglects to 
which he had been subjected ; but when he retired to his own 
chamber for the night, that long fair tress of hair which had 
once secured Amy’s letter, fell under his observation, and with 
the influence of a counter-charm, awakened his heart to nobler 
and more natural feelings. He kissed it a thousand times $ 
and while he recollected that he had it always in his power to 
shun the mortifications which he had that day undergone, by 
retiring into a dignified and even prince-like seclusion, with the 
beautiful and beloved partner of his future life, he felt that he 
could rise above the revenge which Elizabeth had condescended 
to take. 

Accordingly, on the following day, the whole conduct of the 
Earl displayed so much dignified equanimity ; he seemed so 
solicitous about the accommodations and amusements of his 
guests, yet so indifferent to their personal demeanor toward 
him ; so respecttully distant to the Queen, yet so patient of her 
harassing displeasure, that Elizabeth changed her manner to 
him, and, though cold and distant, ceased to offer him any 
direct affront. She intimated also with some sharpness to 
others around her, who thought they were consulting her 
pleasure in showing a neglectful conduct to the Earl, that while 
they remained at Kenilworth, they ought to show the civility 
due from guests to the Lord of the Castle. In short, matters 
were so far changed in twenty-four hours, that some of the more 
experienced and sagacious courtiers foresaw a strong possibility 
of Leicester’s restoration to favor, and regulated their demean- 
or toward him, as those who might one day claim merit for 
not having deserted him in adversity. It is time, however, to 
leave these intrigues, and follow Tressilian and Raleigh on their 
journey. 

The troop consisted of six persons ; for, besides Wayland, 
they had in company a royal pursuivant and two stout serving- 
men. All were well armed, and traveled as fast as it was 
possible with justice to their horses, which had a long journey 
before them. They endeavored to procure some tidings as they 
rode along of Varney and his party, but could hear none, as 
they had traveled in the dark. At a small village about 
twelve miles from Kenilworth, where they gave some refresh- 
ment to their horses, a poor clegyman, the curate of the place, 
came out of a small cottage, and entreated any of the company 
who might know aught of surgery, to look in for an instant on 
a dying man. 

The empiric Wayland undertook to do his best, and as the 


KENILWORTH. 407 


curate conducted him to the spot, he learned that the man had 
been found on the high road about a mile from the village, by 
laborers, as they were going to their work on the preceding 
morning, and the curate had given him shelter in his house. 
He had received a gun-shot wound which seemed to be obviously 
mortal, but whether in a broil or from robbers they could not. 
learn, as he was in a fever, and spoke nothing connectedly. 
Wayland entered the dark and lowly apartment, and no sooner 
had the curate drawn aside the curtain, than he knew in the 
distorted features of the patient the countenance of Michael 
Lambourne. Under pretence of seeking something which he 
wanted, Wayland hastily apprised his fellow-travelers of this 
extraordinary circumstance ; and both Tressilian and Raleigh, 
full of boding apprehensions, hastened to the curate’s house to 
see the dying man. 

The wretch was by this time in the agonies of death, from 
which a much better surgeon than Wayland could not have 
rescued him, for the bullet had passed clear through his body. 
He was sensible, however, at least in part, for he knew Tres- 
silian, and made signs that he wished him to stoop over his 
bed. ‘Tressilian did so, and after some inarticulate murmurs, 
in which the names of Varney and Lady Leicester were alone 
distinguishable, Lambourne bade him “make haste, or he 
would come too late.” It was in vain Tressilian urged the 
patient for further information ; he seemed to become in some 
degree delirious, and when he again made a signal to attract 
Tressilian’s attention, it was only for the purpose of desiring 
him to inform his uncle, Giles Gosling of the Black Bear, that 
“he had died without his shoes after all.”” A convulsion veri- 
fied his words a few minutes after, and the travelers derived 
nothing from having met with him, saving the obscure fears 
concerning the fate of the Countess, which his dying words 
were calculated to convey, and which induced them to urge 
their journey with their utmost speed, pressing horses in the 
Queen’s name, when those which they rode became unfit for 
service. 


408 KENILWORTH. 


CHAPTER FORTY-FIRST. 


The death-beil thrice was heard to ring, 
An aerial voice was heard to call, 
And thrice the raven flapp’d its wing 
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. 
MICKLE. 


WE are now to return to that part of our story where we 
intimated that Varney, possessed of the authority of the Earl 
of Leicester, and of the Queen’s permission to the same effect, 
hastened to secure himself against discovery of his perfidy, by 
removing the Countess from Kenilworth Castle. He had pro- 
posed to set forth early in the morning, but reflecting that the 
Earl might relent in the interim, and seek another interview 
with the Countess, he resolved to prevent, by immediate depart- 
ure, all chance of what would probably have ended in his 
detection and ruin. For this purpose he called for Lambourne, 
and was exceedingly incensed to find that his trusty attendant 
was abroad on some ramble in the neighboring village, or 
elsewhere. As his return was expected, Sir Richard com- 
manded that he should prepare himself for attending him on 
an immediate journey, and follow him in case he returned after 
his departure. 

In the meanwhile, Varney used the ministry of a servant 
called Robin Tider, one to whom the mysteries of Cumnor 
Place were already in some degree known, as he had been 
there more than once in attendance on the Earl. ‘To this man, 
whose character resembled that of Lambourne, though he was 
neither quite so prompt nor altogether so profligate, Varney 
gave command to have three horses saddled, and to prepare a 
horse-litter, and have them in readiness at the postern-gate. 
The natural enough excuse of his lady’s insanity, which was 
now universally believed, accounted for the secrecy with which 
she was to be removed from the Castle, and he reckoned on 
the same apology in case the unfortunate Amy’s resistance or 
screams should render suchnecessary. ‘The agency of Anthony 
Foster was indispensable, and that Varney now went to secure. 

This person, naturally of a sour unsocial disposition, and 
somewhat tired, besides, with his journey from Cumnor to 
Warwickshire, in order to bring the news of the Countess’s 
escape, had early extricated himself from the crowd of was- 
sailers, and betaken himself to his chamber, where he lay asleep, 


KENILWORTH. 409 


when Varney, completely equipped for traveling, and with a 
dark lantern in his hand, entered his apartment. He paused 
an instant to listen to what his associate was murmuring in his 
sleep, and could plainly distinguish the words, “ Ave Maria— 
ora pro nobis—No—it runs not so—deliver us from evil—Ay, 
so it goes.” 

“* Praying in his sleep,” said Varney ; “ and confounding his 
old and new devotions—He must have more need of payer 
ere Tam done with him.—What ho ! holy man—most blessed 
penitent !—Awake—awake !—The devil has not discharged you 
from service yet.” 

As Varney at the same time shook the sleeper by the arm, it 
changed the current of his ideas, and he roared out, “Thieves ! 
—thieves! I will die in defence of my gold—my hard-won 
gold, that has cost me so dear.~Where is Janet ?—~Is Janet 
safe ?” 

“Safe enough, thou bellowing fool !” said Varney ; ‘ are 
thou not ashamed of thy clamor ?” 

Foster by this time was broad awake, and, sitting up in his 
bed, asked Varney the meaning of so untimely a visit. “ It 
augurs nothing good,” he added. 

“ A false prophecy, most sainted Anthony,” returned Varney; 
“it augurs that the hour is come for converting thy leasehold 
into copyhold—What sayest thou to that?” 
¢« “Hadst thou told’me this in broad day,” said Foster, * I 
had rejoiced—but at this dead hour, and by this dim light, and 
looking on thy pale face, which is a ghastly contradiction to 
thy light words, I cannot but rather think of the work that is 
to be done, than the guerdon to be gained by it.” 

“Why, thou fool, it is but to escort thy charge back to 
Cumnor Place.” 

“Ts that indeed all ?”’ said Foster ; “‘ thou look’st deadly pale, 
and thou are not moved by trifles—is that indeed all ?” 

¢ Ay, that—and maybe a trifle more,” said Varney. 

‘¢ Ah, that trifle more!” said Foster ; “ still thou look’st paler 
and paler.” 

“Heed not my countenance,” said Varney,‘ you see it by 
this wretched light. Up and be doing, man—Think of Cum- 
nor Place—thine own proper copyhold—Why, thou mayest 
found a weekly lectureship, besides endowing Janet like a 
baron’s daughter.—Seventy pounds and odd.” 

“« Seventy-nine pounds, five shillings and five-pence half-pen- 
ny, besides the value of the wood,” said Foster ; “and J am to 
have it ali as copyhold ?” 

** All, man—squirrels and all—no gipsy shall but the value 


’ 


410 KENILWORTH. 


of a broom—no boy so much as take a buss nest, without 
paying thee a quittance—Ay, that is right—don thy matters 
as fast as possible—horses and every thing are ready, all save 
that accursed villain Lambourne, who is out on some infernal 
gambol.” 

“ Ay, Sir Richard,” said Foster, “ you would take no advice. 
I ever told you that drunken profligate would fail you at need 
Now I could have helped you to a sober young man.” 

‘What, some slow-spoken, long-breathed brother of the congre- 
gation ?—Why, we shall have use for such also, man—Heaven 
be praised, we shall Jack laborers of every kind.—Ay, that is 
right, forget not your pistols—Come now, and let us away.” 

Whither?’ said Anthony. 

“To my lady’s chamber—and, mind—she mus¢ along with us. 
Thou art not a fellow to be startled by a shriek?” — 

¥ Not it Scripture reason can be rendered for it; and it is 
written, ‘wives, obey your husbands.’ But will my lord’s com- 
mands bear us out if we use violence ; ? v 

“Tush, man; here is his signet,” answered Varney; and, 
having thus silenced the objections of his associate, they went 
together to Lord Hunsdon’s apartments, and, acquainting the 
sentinel with their purpose, as a matter sanctioned by the 
Queen and the Earl of Leicester, they entered the chamber of 
the unfortunate Countess. 

The horror of Amy may be conceived, when, starting from a 
broken slumber, she saw at her bedside Varney, the man on 
earth she most feared and hated. It was even a consolation to 
see that he was not alone, though she had so much reason to 
dread his sullen companion. 

‘‘Madam,” said Varney, “there is no time for ceremony. 
My Lord of Leicester, having fully considered the exigencies 
of the time, sends you his orders immediately to accompany us 
on our return to. Cumnor Place. See, here is his signet, in token 
of his instant and pressing commands, ” 

‘It is false!” said the Countess; ‘* thou hath stolen the 
watrant—thou, who art capable of every villainy, from the 
blackest to the basest !” 

“‘It is TRUE, madam,” replied Varney ; ‘‘ so true, that if you 
do not instantly arise, and prepare to attend us, we must compel 
you to obey our orders.” 

“ Compel !—thou darest not put it to that issue, base as thou 
art,” exclaimed the unhappy Countess. 

“ That remains to be proved, madam,” said Varney, who had 
determined on intimidation as the only means of subduing her 


KENILWORTH. Ari 


high spirit; “if you put me to it you will find me a rough 
groom of the chambers.” 

It was at this threat that Amy screamed so fearfully, that 
had it not been for the received opinion of her insanity, she 
would quickly have had Lord Hunsdon and others to her aid. 
Perceiving, however, that her cries were vain, she appealed to 
Foster in the most affecting terms, conjuring him, as_ his 
daughter Janet’s henor and purity were dear to him, not te 
permit her to be treated with unwomanly violence. 

“Why, madam, wives must obey their husbands—there’s 
Scripture warrant for it,’’ said Foster; ‘“ and if you will dress 
yourself, and come with us patiently, there’s no one shall lay 
finger on you while I can draw a pistol-trigger.” 

Seeing no help arrive, and comforted even by the dogged 
language of Foster, the Countess promised to rise and dress 
herself, if they would agree to retire from the room. Varney 
at the same time assured her of all safety and honor while in 
their hands, and promised, that he himself would not approach 
her, since his presence was so displeasing. Her husband, he 
added, would be at Cumnor Place within twenty-four hours 
after they had reached it. 

Somewhat comforted by this assurance, upon which, how- 
ever, she saw little reason to rely, the unhappy Amy made her 
toilette by the assistance of the lantern which they left with her 
when they quitted the apartment. 

Weeping, trembling, and praying, the unfortunate lady dressed 
herself—with sensations how different from the days in which 
she was wont to decorate herself in all the pride of conscious 
beauty! She endeavored to delay the completing her dress as 
long as she could, until, terrified by the impatience of Varney, 
she was obliged to declare herself ready to attend them. 

When they were about to move, the Countess clung to Foster 
with such an appearance of terror at Varney’s approach, that 
the latter protested to her, with a deep oath, that he had ne 
intention whatever of even coming near her. ‘“ If you do but 
consent to execute your husband’s will in quietness, you shall,” 
he said, ‘see but little of me. I will leave you undisturbed to 
the care of the usher whom your good taste prefers.” 

“My husband’s will!” she exclaimed. ‘ But it is the will 
of God, and let that be sufficient to me.—I will go with Master 
Foster as unresistingly as ever did a literal sacrifice. Heis a 
father at least; and will have decency, if not humanity. For 
thee, Varney, were it my latest word, thou art an equal stranger 
to both.” 

Varney replied only she was at liberty to choose, and walked 


some paces before them to show the way; while, half leaning 
on Foster, and half carried by him, the Countess was transported 
from Saintlowe’s Tower to the postern-gate, where Tider waited 
with the litter and horses. 

The Countess was placed in the former without resistance. 
She saw with some’ satisfaction that while Foster and Tider 
rode close by the litter, which the latter conducted, the dreaded 
Varney lingered behind, and was soon lost in darkness. A little 
while she strove, as the road winded round the verge of the lake, 
to keep sight of those stately towers which called her husband 
lord, and which still in some places sparkled with lights, where 
wassailers were yet reveling. But when the direction of the 
road rendered this no longer possible, she drew back her head, 
and sinking down in the litter, recommended herself to the care 
of Providence. 

Besides the desire of inducing the Countess to proceed quietly 
on her journey, Varney had it also in view to have an interview 
with Lambourne, by whom he every moment expected to be 
joined, without the presence of any witnesses. He knew the 
character of this man—prompt, bloody, resolute, and greedy 
and judged him the most fit agent he could employ in his 
further designs. But ten miles of their journey had been 
measured ere he heard the hasty clatter of horse’s hoofs behind 
him, and was overtaken by Michael Lambourne. 

Fretted as he was with his absence, Varney received his pro- 
fligate servant with a rebuke of unusual bitterness. ‘ Drunken 
villain,” he said, “ thy idleness and debauched folly will stretch 
a halter ere it be long ; and for.me, I care not how soon !” 

This style of objurgation, Lambourne, who was elated to an 
unsual degree, not only by an extraordinary cup of wine, but 
by the sort of confidential interview he had just had with the 
Earl, and the secret of which he had made himself master, did 
not receive with his wonted bumility. ‘“ He would take no 
insolence of language,” he said, “ from the best knight that ever 
wore spurs. Lord Leicester had detained him on some business 
of import, and that was enough for Varney, who was but a ser- 
vant like himself.’ 

Varney was not a little surprised at his unusual tone of. in- 
solence ; but ascribing it to liquor, suffered it to pass as if un- 
noticed, and then began to tamper with Lambourne, touching 


his willingness to aid in removing out of the Earl of Leicester's 


way an obstacle to a rise, which ‘would put it in his power to 
reward his trusty followers to their utmost wish. And upon 
Michael Lambourne’s seeming ignorant what was meant, he 


—S 


KENILWORTH. 433 


plainly indicated “the litter-load, yonder,” as the impediment 
which he desired should be removed. 

“ Look you, Sir Richard, and so forth,” said Michael, “‘some 
are wiser than some, that is one thing, and some are worse than 
some, that’s another. I know my lord’s mind on this matter 
better than thou, for he hath trusted me fully in the matter. 
Here are his mandates, and his last words were, Michael 
Lambourne—for his lordship speaks to me as a gentleman of 
the sword, and useth not the words drunken villain or such 
like phrases, of those who know not how to bear new dignities, 
—Varney, says he, must pay the utmost respect to my Countess, 
—lI trust to you for looking to it, Lambourne, says his lordship, 
and you must bring back my signet from him peremptorily.” 

“‘ Ay,” replied Varney, “said he so, indeed? You know all 
then ? ” 

“‘ All—all—and you were as wise to make a friend of me 
while the weather is fair betwixt us.” 

“ And was there no one present,” said Varney, “ when my 
lord so spoke ?” 

“ Not a breathing creature,” replied Lambourne. ‘ Think 
you my lord would trust any one with such matters, save an 
approved man of action like myself?” 

“ Most true,” said Varney ; and making a pause, he looked 
forward on the moonlit road. ‘They were traversing a wide 
and open heath. ‘The litter, being at least a mile before them, 
was both out of sight and hearing. He looked behind, and 
there was an expanse, lighted by the moonbeams, without one 
human being in sight. He resumed his speech to Lambourne ; 
“And will you turn upon your master, who has introduced 
you to this career of court-like favor—whose apprentice you 
have been, Michael—who has taught you the depths and 
shallows of court intrigue?” 

“ Michael not me!” said Lambourne; ‘I have a name will 
brook a master before it as well as another; and as to the rest, 
if I have been an apprentice, my indenture is out, and I am 
resolute to set up for myself.” 

“Take thy quittance first, thou fool!” said Varney; and 
with a pistol, which he had for some. time held in his hand, 
shot Lambourne through the body. 

The wretch fell from his horse, without a single groan ; and 
Varney, dismounting, rifled his pockets, turning out the lining, 
that it might appear he had fallen by robbers. . He secured the 
Earl’s packet, which was his chief object, but he also took 
Lambourne’s purse, containing some gold pieces, the relics of 
what his debauchery had left him, and, from a singular com- 


AI4 KENILWORTH, 


bination of feelings, carried it in his hand only the length of a 
small river which crossed the road, into which he threw it as 
far as he could fling. Such are the strange remnants of con- 
science which remain after she seems totally subdued, that this 
crue] and remorseless man would have felt himself ‘degraded 
had he pocketed the few pieces belonging to the wretch whom 
he had thus ruthlessly slain. 

The murderer reloaded his pistol, after cleansing the lock 
and barrel from the appearances of late explosion, and rode 
calmly after the litter, satisfying himself that he had so adroitly 
removed a troublesome witness to many of his intrigues, and 
the bearer of mandates which he had no intentions to obey, and 
which, therefore, he was desirous it should be thought had never 
reached his hand. 

The remainder of the journey was made with a degree of 
speed, which showed the little care they had for the health of 
the unhappy Countess. They paused only at places where all 
was under their command, and where the tale they were pre- 
pared to tell of the insane Lady Varney would have obtained 
ready credit, had she made an attempt to appeal to the com- 
passion of the few persons admitted to see her. But Amy 
saw no chance of obtaining a hearing from any to whom she 
had an opportunity of addressing herself, and, besides, was too 
terrified for the presence of Varney, to violate the implied-con- 
dition, under which she was to travel free from his company. 
The authority of Varney, often so used, during the Earl’s 
private journeys to Cumnor, readily procured relays of horses 
where wanted, so that they approached Cumnor Place upon 
the night after they left Kenilworth. 

At this period of the journey, Varney came up to the rear of 
the litter, as he had done before repeatedly during their prog- 
ress, and asked, “‘ What does she ?”’ 

“‘She sleeps,” said Foster ; ‘I would we were home—her 
strength is exhausted.” 

‘ Rest will restore her,” answered Varney. ‘“‘ She shall soon 
sleep sound and long—we must consider how to lodge her in 
safety.” 

‘“‘In her own apartments, to be sure,’’ said Foster. “I have 
sent Janet to her aunt’s, with a proper rebuke, and the old 
women are truth itself—for they hate this lady cordially.” 

“We will not trust them, however, friend Anthony,” said 
Varney ; “we must secure her in that stronghold where you 
keep your gold.” 

“My gold !” said Anthony, much alarmed ; * why, what 
gold have “T 2—God help me, I have no gold—I would I had.” 


KENILWORTH. 415 


_ “ Now, marry hang thee, thou stupid brute—who thinks of 
or cares for thy gold?—lIf I did, could I not find an hundred 
better ways to come at it?—In one word, thy bed-chamber, 
which thou-hast so fastened curiously, must be her place of 
seclusion; and thou, thou hind, shalt press her pillows of 
down.—I dare to say the Earl will never ask after the rich 
furniture of these four rooms.” 

This last. consideration rendered Foster tractable ; he only 
asked permission to ride before, to make matters ready, and 
spurring his horse, he posted before the litter, while Varney 
falling about threescore paces behind it, it remained only at- 
tended by Tiber. 

When they had arrived at Cumnor Place, the Countess asked 
eagerly for Janet, and showed much alarm when informed that 
she was no longer to have the attendance of that amiable girl. 

“My daughter is dear to me, madam,” said Foster, gruffly ; 
“and I desire not that she should get the court tricks of lying 
and ’scaping—somewhat too much of that has she learned 
already, an it please your ladyship.” 

The Countess, much fatigued and greatly terrified by the 
_circumstances of her journey, made no answer to this insolence, 
but mildly expressed a wish to retire to her chamber. 

““ Ay, ay,” muttered Foster, “’ tis but reasonable ; but, under 
favor, you go not to your gew-gaw toy-house yonder—you will 
sleep to-night in better security.” 


“‘T would it were in my grave,” said the Countess; ‘ but 
that mortal feelings shiver at the idea of soul and body 
parting.” 


“You, I guess; have no chance to shiver at that,” replied 
Foster. ‘My lord comes hither to-morrow, and doubtless you 
will make your own ways good with him.” 

“ But does he come hither ?—does he indeed, good Foster ?”’ 

“Oh, ay, good Foster!” replied the other. ‘ But what 
Foster shall I be to-morrow, when you speak of me to my lord 
—though all I have done was to obey his orders?” 

“You shall be my protecter—a rough one indeed—but still 
a protector,” answered the Countess. “Oh, that Janet were 
but here!” 

“She is better where she is,”’ answered Foster—‘ one of you 
is enough to perplex a plain head—but will you taste any 
refreshment? ”’ 

“Oh, no, no—my chamber—my chamber. I trust,” she 
said, apprehensively, “ I may secure it on the inside?” 

“With all my heart,” answered Foster, “so I may secure it 
on the outside ;” and taking a light he led the way to a part 


416 KENILWORTH. 


of the building where Amy had never been and conducted her 
up a stair of great height, preceded by one of the old women 
with a lamp. At the head of the stair, which seemed of almost 
immeasurable height, they crossed a short wooden gallery, 
formed of black oak, and very narrow, at the further end of 
which was:a strong oaken door, which opened and admitted 
them into the miser’s apartment, homely in its accommodations 
in the very last degree, and, exespt in name, little different from 
d prison-room. 

Foster stopped at the door, and gave the vith to the 
Countess, without either offering or permitting the attendance 
of the old woman who had carried it. The lady stood not on 
ceremony, but taking it hastily, barred the door, and secured 
it with the ample means provided on the inside ae that 
purpose. 

Varney, meanwhile, had furked behind ‘on the stairs, but 
hearing thé door barred, he now came up on tiptoe, and Foster, 
winking to him, pointed with self-complacence to a’ piece of 
concealed machinery in the wall, which, playing with’ much 
ease and little noise, dropped a part of the wooden gallery, 
after the manner of a drawbridge so as to put off all commu- 
nication between the door of the bed-room, which he usually 
inhabited, and the landing-place of the high winding-stair 
which ascended to it. The rope by which this machinery was 
wrought was generally carried within the bed-chamber, it being 
Foster's object to provide against invasion from without ; but 
now that it was intended to secure the ‘prisoner within, the 
cord had been brought over to the landing-place, and was there 
made fast, when Foster, with much complacency, had dropped 
the unsuspected trap- door. 

Varney looked with great attention at the machinery, and 
peeped more than once “down the abyss which was opened by 
the fall of the trap-door. Itwas dark as pitch, and seemed 
profoundly deep, going, as Foster informed his confederate in 
a whisper, nigh to the lowest vault of the Castle. Varney cast 
énce more a fixed and long look down into this sable gulf, and 
then followed Foster to the part of the manor-house most 
usually inhabited. 

When they arrived in the parlor which we ‘have mentioned, 
Varney requested Foster to get them supper, and some of the 
choicest wine. ‘I will seek Alasco,” he added; “ we have 
work for him to.do, and we must put him in good heart.” 

Foster groaned at this intimation, but made no remonstrance, 
The old woman assured Varney that Alasco had scarce eaten or 
drunken since her master’s departure, living perpetually shut 


KENILWORTH. 417 


up in the laboratory, and talking as if the world’s continuance 
depended‘on what he was doing there. | 

“ T will teach him that the world hath other claims on him,’! 
said Varney, seizing a light, and going in quest of the alchemist. 
He returned, after a considerable absence, very pale, but yet 
with his habitual sneer on his cheek and nostril—* Our friend,” 
he said, “ has exhaled.” 

“How ! what mean you ?” said Foster—‘* Run away—fled 
with my forty pounds, that should have been multiplied a 
thousand fold ? I will have Hue and Cry!” 

“ T will tell thee a surer way,” said Varney. 

“How! which way?” exclaimed Foster; “ I will have back 
my forty pounds,—I deemed them as surely a thousand times 
multiplied—I will have back my in-put, at the least.” 

“ Go hang thyself, then, and sue Alasco in the devil’s Court 
of Chancery, for thither he has carried the cause.” 

“ How !—what dost thou mean—is he dead ?” 

“ Ay, truly is he,” said Varney, ‘‘ and properly swoln already 
in the face and body—He had been mixing some of his devil’s 
medicines, and the glass mask which he used constantly had 
fallen from his face, so that the subtle poison entered the brain, 
and did its work.” 

“ Sancta Maria!” said Foster ;—‘‘ I mean, God in his 
mercy preserve us from covetousness and deadly sin !—Had 
he not had projection, think you? Saw you no ingots in the 
crucibles ? ” 

“Nay, I looked not but at the dead carrion,” answered 
Varney ; “ an ugly spectacle—he was swoln like a corpse three 
days exposed on the wheel—Pah! give me a cup of wine.” 

“T will go,” said Foster, “ I will examine myself” He 
took the lamp, and hastened to the door, but there hesitated 
and paused. ‘“ Will you not go with me?” said he to Varney. 

“To what purpose?” said Varney; “I have seen and 
smelled enough to spoil my appetite. I broke the window, 
however, and let in the air—it reeked of sulphur, and such 
like suffocating steams, as if the very devil had been there.” 

‘And might it not be the act of the demon himself?” said 
Foster, still hesitating; “ I have heard he is powerful at such 
times, and with such people.” 

“Stull, if it were that Satan of thine,” answered Varney, 
“who thus jades thy imagination, thou art in perfect safety, 
unless he is a most unconscionable devil indeed. He hath had 
two good sops of late.” 

“How two sops—what mean you?” said Foster—“ what 
mean you?” 


418 KENILWORTH. 


“You will know in time,” said Varney ;—“ and then this 
other banquet—but thou wilt esteem Her too choice a morsel 
for the fiend’s tooth--she must have her psalms, and harps, 
and seraphs.” 

Anthony Foster heard, and came slowly back to the table: 
“God! Sir Richard, and must that then be done?” 

‘: Ay, in very truth, Anthony, or there comes no copyholds in 
thy way,” replied his inflexible associate. 

“‘T always foresaw it would land there!” said Foster; “but 
how, Sir Richard, how ?—for not to win the world would I put 
hands on her.’ 

“T cannot blame thee,” said Varney; “I should be reluc- 
tant to do that myself—we miss Alasco and-his manna sorely ; 
ay, and the dog Lambourne.” 

“Why, where tarries Lambourne ?” said Anthony. 

“Ask no questions,” said Varney, “‘ thou wilt see him one 
day, if thy creed be true.—But to our yraver matter.—I -will 
teach thee a springe, Tony, to catch a pewit—yonder trap-door 
—yonder gimerack of thine, will remain secure in appearance, 
will it not, though the supports are withdrawn beneath?” 

‘““Ay, marry, will it,” said Foster; ‘so long as itis not 
trodden on.” 

‘“ But were the lady to attempt an escape over it,” replied 
Varney, “her weight would carry it down?” 

“A mouse’s weight would do it,” said Foster. 

“Why, then, she dies in attempting her escape, and what 
could you or I help it, honest Tony? Let us to bed, we will 
adjust our project to-morrow.” 

On the next day, when evening approached, Varney sum- 
moned Foster to the execution of their plan... Tider and Foster’s 
old man-servant were sent on a feigned errand down to the 
village, and Anthony. himself, as if anxious to see that the 
Countess suffered no want of accommodation, visited her place 
of confinement. _He was so much staggered at the mildness 
and patience with which she seemed to endure her confinement, 
that he could not help earnestly recommending to her not to 
cross the threshold of her room on any account whatever, until 
Lord Leicester should come, “Which,” he added, “I trust in 
God, will be very soon.’ Amy patiently promised that she 
would resign. herself to her fate, and Foster returned to his 
hardened companion with his conscience half-eased of the peril- 
ous load that weighed on it. ‘JI have warned her,” he said; 
“surely in vain is the snare set in sight of. any bird!” 

He left, therefore, the Countess’s door unsecured on the 
outside, and, under the eye of Varney, withdrew the support 


KENILWORTH. A19 


which sustained the falling trap, which, therefore, kept its level 
position merely by a slight adhesion. They withdrew to wait 
the issue on the ground-floor adjoining, but they waited long in 
vain. At length Varney, after walking Jong to and fro, with 
his face muffled in his cloak, threw it suddenly back, and ex- 
claimed, “ Surely never was a woman fool enough to neglect so 
fair an opportunity of escape!” 

“Perhaps she is resolved,” said Foster, ‘to await her hus- 
band’s return. ” 

“True !—most true,” said Varney, rushing out, “I had not 
thought of that before. 

In less than two minutes, Foster who remained behind, 
heard the tread of a horse in the courtyard, and then a whistle 
similar to that which was the Earl’s usual signal ;— the instant 
after, the door of the Countess’s chamber opened, and in the 
same moment the trap-door gave way. There was a rushing 
sound—a heavy fall—a faint groan—and all was over, 

At the same instant, Varney called in at the window, in an 
accent and tone which was an indescribable mixture betwixt hor- 
ror and raillery, “‘ Is the bird caught ?—is the deed done?” 

“* O God, forgive us !” replied Anthony Foster. 

“‘ Why, thou fool,” said Varney, ‘“ thy toil is ended, and thy 
reward secure. Look down into the vault—what seest thou? 

*¢ [ see only a heap of white clothes, like a snow-drift,” said 
Foster. ‘“ O God, she moves her arm !” 

* Hurl something down on her.—Thy gold chest, Tony—it 
is an heavy one.” 

“ Varney, thou art an incarnate fiend ! ” replied Foster ;— 
“There needs nothing more—she is gone ! ” 

‘¢ So pass our troubles,” said Varney, entering the room; “I 
dreamed not I could have mimicked the Earl’s call so well.” 

“‘ Oh, if there be judgment in Heaven, thou hast deserved 
it,” said Foster, ‘‘ and wilt meet it !—thou hast destroyed her by 
means of her best affections—It is a seething of the kid in the 
mother’s milk !” 

“ Thou art a fanatical ass,” replied Varney; “let us now 
think how the alarm should be given,—the body is to remain 
where it is.”’ 

But their wickedness was to be permitted nolonger ;—for 
even while they were at this consultation, Tressilian and Raleigh 
broke in upon them, having obtained admittance by means of 
Tider and Foster’s servant, whom they had secured at the 
village. 

Anthony Foster fled on their entrance ; and knowing each 
corner and pass of the intricate old house, escaped all search, 


420 KENILWORTH. | 


But Varney was taken on the spot ; and, instead of expressing 
compunction for what he had done, seemed to take a fiendish 
pleasure in pointing out to them the remains of the murdered 
Countess, while at the same time he defied them to show that 
he had any share in her death. The despairing grief of Tres- 
silian, on viewing the mangled and yet warm remains of what 
had lately been so lovely and so beloved, was such that Raleigh 
was compelled to -have him removed from the place by force, 
while he himself assumed the direction of what was to be done. 

Varney, upon a second examination, made very little mystery 
either of the crime or of its motives ; alleging, as a reason for 
his frankness, that though much of what he confessed could 
only have attached to him by suspicion, yet such suspicion 
would have been sufficient to deprive him of Leicester’s con- 
fidence, and to destroy all his towering plans of ambition. “ J 
was not born,’ he said, “to drag, on the remainder of life 
a degraded outcast,—nor will I so die, that my fate shall make 
a holiday to the vulgar herd.” 

From these words it was apprehended he had some design 
upon himself, aad he was carefully deprived of all means: by 
which such could be carried into execution. But like some of 
the heroes of antiquity, he carried about his person a small 
quantity of strong poison, prepared probably by the celebrated 
Demetrius Alasco. Having swallowed this potion over-night, 
he was found next morning dead in his cell ; nor did he appear 
to have suffered much agony, his countenance presenting, even 
in death, the habitual expression of sneering sarcasm, which was 
predominant while he lived. ‘‘ The wicked man,” saith Scrip- 
ture, “ hath no bonds in his death.” 

The fate of his colleague in wickedness was long unknown, 
Cumnor Place was deserted immediately after the murder: for, 
in the vicinity of what was called the Lady Dudley’s Chamber, 
the domestics pretended to hear groans, and screams, and other 
supernatural noises. After a certain length of time, Janet, 
hearing no tidings of her father, became the uncontroled mistress 
of his property, and conferred it with her hand, upon Wayland, 
now aman of settled character and holding a place in Elizabeth’s 
household. But it was after they had both been dead for some 
years, that their eldest son and heir, in making some researches 
about Cummor Hall, discovered a secret passage, closed by an 
iron door, which, opening from behind the bed in the Lady 
Dudley’s Chamber, descended to a sort of cell, in which they 
found an iron chest containing a quantity of gold and a human 
skeleton stretched above it. The fate of Anthony Foster was 
now manifest, He had fled to this place of concealment, for 


KENILWORTH. 421 


getting the key of the spring-lock ; and, being barred from 
escape, by the means he had used for preservation of that gold 
for which he had sold his salvation, he had there perished miser- 
ably. Unquestionably the groans and screams heard by the 
domestics were not entirely imaginary, but were those of this 
wretch, who, in his agony, was crying for relief and succor. 

The news of the Countess’s dreadful fate put a sudden period 
to the pleasures of Kenilworth. Leicester retired from court, 
and for a considerable time abandoned himself to his remorse, 
But as Varney in his last declaration had been studious to spare 
the character of his patron, the Earl was the object rather of 
compassion than resentment. The Queen at length recalled 
him to court ; he was once more distinguished as a statesman 
and favorite, and the rest of his career is well known to history. 
But there was something retributive in his death, if, according 
to an account very generally received, it took place from his 
swallowing a draught of poison which was designed by him for 
another person. * 

Sir Hugh Robsart died very soon after his daughter, having 
settled his estate on Tressilian. But neither the prospect of 
rural independence, nor the promise of favor which Elizabeth 
held out to induce him to follow the court, could remove his 
profound melancholy. Wherever he went, he seemed to see 
before him the disfigured corpse of the early and only object of 
his affection. At length, having made provision for the main- 
tenance of the old friends and old servants who formed Sir 
Hugh’s family at Lidcote Hall, he himself embarked with his 
friend Raleigh for the Virginia expedition, and, young in years 
but old in grief, died before his day in that foreign land. 

Of inferior persons it is only necessary to say, that Blount’s 
wit grew brighter as his yellow roses faded ; that, doing his 
part as a brave commander in the wars, he was much more in 
his element than during the short period of his following the 
court ; and that Flibbertigibbet’s acute genius raised him to 
favor and distinction, in the employment both of Burleigh and 
Cecil. 


# Note L. Death of the Earl of Leicester. 


NOTES TO KENILWORTH. 


Note A, p. 5.—TITLE OF KENILWORTH. 


[Lockhart informs us that ‘‘ Sir Walter wished to call his novel, like the 
ballad, Cumnor fail, but, in deference to his publisher’s (Constable’s) 
wishes, substituted the present title.” The fascination he had for this 
ballad is referred to by his old schoolfellow Mr. Irving, who says, “ After 
the labors of the day were over we often walked in the AZeadows (a public 
park in Edinburgh, intersected by formal rows of old trees), especially in 
the moonlight nights, and Scott seemed never weary of repeating the first 
stanza, ‘ The dews of summer night did fall.’ ” 

When speaking of the Waverley Novels, Mr. Lockhart declares that 
“ Kenilworth ” was one of the most successful of them all at the time of 
publication ; and it continues, and, I doubt not, will ever continue, to be 
placed in the very highest rank of prose fiction. The rich variety of 
character, and scenery, and incident, in this novel, has never indeed been 
surpassed ; nor, with the one exception of the Bride of Lammermoor, has 
Scott bequeathed us a deeper and more affecting tragedy than that of Amy 
Robsart.”’] 


Note B, p. 28.—FosTER, LAMBOURNE, AND THE BLACK BEAR. 


If faith is to be put in epitaphs, Anthony Foster was something the very 
reverse of the character represented in the novel. Ashmole gives this de- 
scription of his tomb. I copy from the Aztiguities of Berkshire, vol. i. p. 
143. 
Tn the north wall of the chancel at Cumnor Church is a monument of 
gray marble, whereon, in brass plates, are engraved a man in armor, and 
his wife in the habit of her- times, both kneeling before a fald-stoole, to- 
gether with the figures of three sons kneeling behind their mother. Under 
the figure of the man is this inscription: 


ANTONIUS FORSTER, generis generosa propago, 
Cumnere, Dominus, Bercheriensis erat. 
Armiger, Armigero prognatus patre Ricardo, 
Qui quondam Iphlethz Salopiensis erat. 
Quatuor ex isto fluxerunt stemmate nati, 
Ex isto Antonius stemmate quartus erat. 
Mente sagax, animo precellens, corpore promptus 
Eloquii dulcis, ore disertus erat, 


NOTES. 423 


In factis probitas; fuit in sermone venustus, 
In vultu gravitas, religione fides, 
In patriam pietas, in egenos grata voluntas, 
Accedunt reliquis annumeranda bonis. 
Si quod cuncta rapit, rapuit non omnia Lethum, 
Si quad Mors rapuit, vivida fama dedit. 
* * * # x 
These verses following are writ at length, two by two, in praise of him; 


Argute resonas Cithare pretendere chordas 
Novit, et Aonia concrepuisse Lyra 
Gaudebat terre teneras defigere plantas; 
Et mira pulchras construere arte domos, 
Composita varias lingua formare loquelas 
Doctus, et edocta scribere multa manu. 


‘¢ The arms over it thus: 


I. 3 Hunter's Horns stringed. 


Quara. 9 77. 3 Pinions with their points upward. 


“ The crest is a Stag couchant, vulnerated through the neck by a broad 
arrow; on his side is a A/artlet¢t for a difference.” 


From this monumental inscription it appears that Anthony Foster, 
instead of being a vulgar, low bred puritanical churl, was in fact a gentle- 
man of birth and consideration, distinguished for his skill in the arts of 
music and horticulture, as also in languages. In so far, therefore, the 
Anthony Foster of the romance has nothing but the name in common with 
the real individual. But notwithstanding the charity, benevolence, and 
religious faith imputed by the monument of gray marble to its tenant, 
tradition, as well as secret history, name him as the active agent in the 
death of the Countess; and it is added, that from being a jovial and con- 
vivial gallant, as we may infer from some expressions in the epitaph, he 
sunk, after the fatal deed, into a man of gloomy and retired habits, whose 
looks and manners indicated that he suffered under the pressure of some 
atrocious secret. 

The name of Lambourne is still known in the vicinity, and it is said 
some of the clan partake the habits, as well as name, of the Michael Lam- 
bourne of the romance. A man of this name lately murdered his wife, 
outdoing Michael in this respect, who only was concerned in the murder of 
the wife of another man. 

I have only to add, that the jolly Black Bear has been restored to his 
predominance over bowl and bottle in the village of Cumnor. 


NOTE C, p. 134.—LEGEND OF WAYLAND SMITH. 


The great defeat given by Alfred to the Danish invaders is said, by Mr. 
Gough to have taken place near Ashdown, in Berkshire. “The burial 
place of Baereg, the Danish chief, who was slain in this fight, is distin- 
guished by a parcel of stones, less than a mile from the hill, set on edge, 
enclosing a piece of ground somewhat raised. On the east side of the 
southern extremity stand three squarish flat stones, of about four or five 
feet over either way, supporting a fourth, and now called by the vulgar 
WAYLAND SMITH, from an idle tradition about an invisible smith replacing 


424 NOTES. 


lost horse-shoes there.”—-GouGH’s Ldition of Camden’s Britannia, vol, i. p 
221, 

The popular belief still retains memory of this wild legend, which, corr 
nected as it is with the site of a Danish sepulchre, may have arisen from 
some legend concerning the northern Duergar, who resided in the rocks, 
and were cunning workers in steel and iron. It was believed that Wayland 
Smith’s fee was sixpence, and that, unlike other workmen, he was offended 
if more was offered. Of late his offices have been again called to memory ; 
but fiction has in this, as in other cases, taken the liberty to pillage the 
stores of oral tradition.’ This monument must be very ancient, for it has 
been kindly pointed out to me that it is referred to in an ancient Saxon 
charter, as a landmark. The monument has been of late cleared out, and 
made considerably more conspicuous, 

[The vale of the Whitehorse derives its name from the figure of a horse 
which has been described on the hill-side at this place, the turf having 
been removed from the chalky soil in such a way as to show at a distance 
the form of a white horse. This figure is supposed te have been cut out 
during the Saxon period to celebrate some victory. On certain occasions 
the white horse is ‘* scoured’? or repaired by the peasantry of the neigh- 
borhood, who turnout in large numbers, and remove any turf that may have 
settled itself on the figure of the horse.] 


Nore D, p. 144.—SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 


Among the attendants and adherents. of Sussex, we have ventured to 
introduce the celebrated Raleigh, in the dawn of his court favor, . 

In Aubrey’s Correspondence there are some. curious particulars. of Sir 
Walter Raleigh. ‘* He was a.tall, handsome, bold man; but his.nzeve was 
that he was damnably proud. Old Sir Robert Harley of Brampton Brian 
Castle, who knew him, would say, it was a great question who was the 
proudest, Sir, Walter, or Sir Thomas Overbury; but the difference that was 
was judged in Sir Thomas’s side. In the great parlor at Downton, at Mr. 
Raleigh’s, is a good piece, an original of Sir. Walter, in a white satin doub- 
let, all. embroidered with rich pearls, and a. mighty rich chain of great 
pearls about his neck. The old seryants have told me that the pearls were 
near as big as the painted ones. He hada most remarkable aspect, an ex- 
ceeding high forehead, long-faced, and sour-eyelidded.” A rebus is added 
to this purpose : 7 . Ape 


The enemy, to the stomach and the word of disgrace, 
Is the name of the gentleman with the bold face. 


Sir Walter Raleigh’s beard turned up naturally, which gave him an ad- 
vantage over the gallants of the time, whose mustaches received a touch of 
the barber’s art to give them the air then most admired.—See Aubrey’s 
Correspondence, Vol. li. part li. p. 500. 


NoTeE E, p. 157: —COuRT FAVOR OF StR WALTER RALEIGH. 


The gallant incident of the cloak, is the traditional account of the cele- 
brated: statesman’s rise at court. None of Elizabeth’s courtiers knew better 
than he how to make his court to her personal vanity, or could more justly 
estimate the quantity of flattery which she could condescend to swallow. 
Being confined in the Tower for some offence, and understanding the Queen 
was about to pass to Greenwich in her barge, he insisted on approaching 
the window, that he might see, at whatever distance, the Queen of his Af- 


NOTES TO KENILWORTH. 425 


J 


fections, the most’ beautiful object which the earth bore on its surface. 
The Lieutenant of the Tower (his own particular friend) threw himself 
between his prisoner and the window; while Sir Walter, apparently influ- 
enced by a.fit of unrestrainable passion, swore he would: not be debarred 
from seeing his light, his life, his goddess! A» scuffle ensued, got up for 
effect’s sake, in which the Lieutenant and his captive grappled and struggled 
with fury—tore each other’s hair—and at length: drew daggers, and were 
only separated by force. -The Queen being informed of this scene exhibited 
by her frantic adorer, it wrought, as was to be expected, much in favor of 
the captive Paladin. There is little doubt that his quarrel with the 
Lieutenant was entirely contrived for the purpose which it produced. 


Note F, p.183.—RoOBERT LANEHAM. 


Little is known of Robert Laneham, save in his curious letter to a friend 
in London, giving an account of Queen Elizabeth’s entertainments at Kenil- 
worth, written in a style of the most intolerable affectation, both in point 
of composition and orthography. He describes himself as a don vivant, who 
was wont to be jolly and dry in the morning, and by his good-will would be 
chiefly in the company of the ladies: He was, by the interest of Lord 
Leicester, Clerk of the Council Chamber door, and also keeper of the same. 
“ When Council sits,” says he, “ I am at hand. If any makes:a babbling, 
Peace, say I. If I see a listener or a pryer in at the chinks or lockhole, I 
am presently on the bones of him. If a friend comes, I make him sit down 
by me on a form or chest. The rest may walk, a God’s name!” There 
has been seldom a better portrait of the pragmatic conceit and self-import- 
ance of a small man in office. 


Note G, p. 207.—DR. JULIO. 


The Earl of Leicester’s Italian physican, Julio, was affirmed by his con- 
temporaries to be a skilful compounder of poisons, which he applied with 
such frequency, that the Jesuit Parsons extols ironically the marvelous 
good luck of this great favorite, in the opportune death of those who stood 
in the way of his wishes. There was a curious passage on the subject :— 

“ Long after this, he fell in love with the Lady Sheffield, whom I sig- 
nified: before, and then also had he the same fortune to have her :hus- 
band dye quickly, with an extreame rheume in his head (as was given 
out) but as others say, of an artificiall catarre that stopped his breath. 

_“ The like good chance had:he in the death of my Lord of Essex (as I 
have said before), and that at a time most fortunate for his purpose ; for 
when he was coming home from Ireland, with intent to revenge himselfe 
upon my Lord of Leicester for begetting his wife with childe in his absence 
(the childe was a daughter, and brought up by the Lady Shandoes, W. 
Knooles, his wife), my Lord of Leicester hearing thereof, wanted not a 
friend or two to accompany 'the deputy, as among other a couple of the 
Earles own servants, Crompton (if [ misse not his name), yeoman of his 
bottles, and Lloid his secretary, entertained afterward by my Lord of Leices- 
ter, and so he dyed in the way, of an. extreame flux, caused by an Italian 
receipe, as all his friends are well assured, the maker whereof was a chy- 
rurgeon (as it is beleeved) that then was newly come to my Lord from Ital 
—a cunning man and sure in operation, with whom, if the good Lady had 
been sooner acquainted, and used his help, she should not have needed to 
sitten so pensive at home, and fearfull of her husband’s former returne out 
or thesame country:.\ 4)... 5. «5 Neither must you marvaile though all 
these died in diverse manners of outward diseases, for thisis the excellency 


426 NOTES. 


of the Italian art, for which the chyrurgeon and Dr. Julio were entertained 
so carefully, who can make a man dye in what manner or show of sickness, 
you will—by whose instructions, no doubt ; but his lordship is now cunning, 
especially adding also to these the counsel of his Doctor Bayly,a man also 
not a little studied (as he seemeth) in his art ; for I heard him once myselfe, 
in a publique act in Oxford, and that in presence of my Lord of Leicester 
(if I be not deceived), maintain that poyson might be so tempered and 
given as it should not appear presently, and yet should kill the party after- 
ward, at what time should be appointed, which argument belike pleased 
well his lordship, and therefore was chosen to be discussed in his audience 
if I be not deceived of his being that daypresent. So, though one dye of a 
flux, and another of a catarre, yet this importeth little to the matter, but 
showeth rather the great cunning and skill of the artificer.’—PARSONS’ 
Leicester's Commonwealth, p. 23. 

It is unnecessary to state the numerous reasons why the Earl is stated in 
the tale to be rather the dupe of villains than the unprincipled author of 
their atrocities. In the latter capacity, which a part at least of his con- 
temporaries imputed to him, he would have made a character too disgust- 
ingly wicked, to be useful for the purposes of fiction. 

I have only to add, that the union of the poisoner, the quack-salver, the 
alchymist, and the astrologer, in the same person ; was familiar to the pre- 
tenders to the mystic sciences. 


Note II, p. 276.—AMyY ROBSART AT KENILWORTH. 


[The historical critic will recognize an obvious anachronism in the 
Author’s account of Amy’s visit to Kenilworth Castle. The festivities 
there took place in July 1575, several years after the death of the real 
Amy Dudley. It may be mentioned, however, that during these festivities 
the Earl of Leicester was living in secret wedlock with Lady Sheffield. 

With reference to these historical liberties, see the conclusion to the 
Monastery, of this edition. ] 


Norte I, p. 311.—ENTERTAINMENTS AT KENILWORTH. 


See Laneham’s Account of the Queen’s Entertainment at Kenilworth 
Castle, in 1575, a very diverting tract written by as great a coxcomb as ever 
blotted paper. (See Note F.) The original is extremely rare, but it has 
been twice reprinted; once in Mr. Nichol’s very curious and interesting 
collection of the Progresses and Public Processions of Queen Elizabeth, 
vol.i.; and more lately in a beautiful antiquarian publication termed 
Kenilworth Lllustrated, printed at Chiswick, for Henry Merridew of Cov- 
entry, and Radcliffe of Birmingham. It contains reprints of Laneham’s 
Letter, Gascoigne’s Princely Progress, and other scarce pieces, annotated 
with accuracy and ability. The Author takes the liberty to refer to this 
work as his authority for the account of the festivities. 

I am indebted for a curious ground-plan of the Castle of Kenilworth, as 
it existed in Queen Elizabeth’s time, to the voluntary kindness of Richard 
Badnall, Esq. of Olivebank, near Liverpool. From his obliging communi- 
cation, I learn that the original sketch was found among the manuscripts of 
the celebrated J. J. Rousseau, when he left England. These were intrusted 
by the philosopher to the care of his friend Mr. Davenport, and passed 
from his legatee into the possession of Mr. Badnall. 


NOTES. 42” 


Nore J, p. 321.—ITALIAN RHYMER. 


The incident alluded to occurs in the poem of Orlando Innamorato of 
Boiardo, libro ii. canto 4, stanza 25. 


“Non era per ventura,” etc. 
It may be rendered thus : 


As then, perchance, unguarded was the tower, 
So enter’d free Anglanté’s dauntless knight. 
No monster and no giant guard the bower 
In whose recess reclined the fairy light, 
Robed in a loose cymar of lily white, 
And on her lap a sword of breadth and might, 
In whose broad blade, as in a mirror bright, 
Like maid that trims her for a festal night, 
The fairy deck’d her hair, and placed her coronet aright. 


Elizabeth’s attachment to the Italian school of poetry was singularly 


‘manifested on a well-known occasion. Her godson, Sir John Harrington, 


having offended her delicacy by translating some of the licentious passages 
of the Orlando Furioso, she imposed on him, as a penance, the task of 
rendering the whole poem into English. 


Note K, p. 330.—FURNITURE OF KENILWORTH. 


In revising this work, I have had the means of making some accurate 
additions to my attempt to describe the princely pleasures of Kenilworth, 
by the kindness of my friend William Hamper, Esq., who had the goodness 
to communicate to me an inventory of the furniture of Kenilworth in the 
days of the magnificent Earl of Leicester. I have adorned the text with 
some of the splendid articles mentioned in the inventory, but antiquaries, 
especially, will be desirous to see amore full specimen than the story 
leaves room for. 


EXTRACTS FROM KENILWORTH INVENTORY, A. D. 1584. 


A Salte, ship-fashion, of the mother of pearle, garnished with silver and 
diverse workes, warlike ensignes, and ornaments, with xvj pieces of ord- 
nance, whereof ij on wheles, two anckers on the foreparte, and on the stearne | 
the image of Dame Fortune standing on a globe with a flag in her hand. 
Pois xxxij oz. 

A gilte salte like a swann, mother of perle. Pois xxx oz, iij quarters. 

A George on horseback, of wood, painted and gilt, with a case for 
knives in the tayle of the horse, and a case for oyster knives in the breast 
of the Dragon. 

A green barge-cloth, embroider’d with white lions and beares 

A perfuming pann, of silver. Pois xix oz. 

In the halle. Tabells, long and short, vj. Formes long and short, 
xiiij. 

HANGINGS. 
These are minutely specified, and consisted of the following subjects, 


(in tapestry, and gilt and red leather.) 
Flowers, beasts, and pillars arched. Forest worke. Historie. Storie 


428 NOTES. 


of Susanna, the Prodigall Childe, Saule, Tobie, Hercules, Lady Fame, 
Hawking and Hunting, Jezabell, Judith and Holofernes, David, Abraham, 
Sampson, Hippolitus, Alexander the Great, Naaman the Assyrian, Jacob, 
etc. 


BEDSTEDS WITH THEIR FURNITURE. 


(These are magnificent and numerous. I shall copy, verbatim, the 
description of what appears to have been one of the best, ) 


A bedsted of wallnut-tree, toppe fashion, the pillers redd and varnished, 
the ceelor, tester, and single vallance of crimson sattin, paned with a broad 
border of bone lace of golde and silver. The tester richlie embrothered with 
my Lo. armes ina garland of hoppes, roses, and pomegranetts, and lyned 
with buckerom.  Fyve curteins of crimson sattin to the same bedsted, 
striped downe with a bone lace of gold and silver, garnished with buttons 
and loops of crimson silk and golde, containing xiiij bredths of sattin, and 
one yarde Wj quarters deepe. The celor, vallance, and curteins lyned with 
crymson taffata sarsenet. 

A crymson sattin counterpointe, quilted and embr. with a golde twiste, 
and lyned with red sarsenet, being in length iij yards good, and in breadth 
li) Scant. 

A chaise of crymson sattin, suteable. 

A fayre quilte of crymson sattin, vj breadths, iij yardes 3 quarters naile 
deepe, all lozenged over with silver twiste, in the midst of a cinquefoile 
withina garland of tragged staves, fringed rounde aboute with a smal! fringe 
of crymson silke, lyned throughe with white fustian. 

Fyve plumes of coolered feathers, garnished with bone lace and span- 
gells of goulde and silver, standing in cups * knitt all all over with gonlde, 
silver, and crymson silk. 

A carpett for a cupboarde of crymson sattin, embrothered with a border 
of goulde twiste, about jij parts of it fringed with silk and goulde, lyned 
with bridges ¢ sattin, in length ij yards, and ij bredths of sattin. 

(There were eleven down beds and ninety feather beds, besides thirty- 
seven mattresses. ) 


CHAYRES, STOOLES, AND CUSHENS, 


(These were equally splendid with the beds, etc. Ishall here copy that 
which stands at the head of the list.) 


A chaier of crimson velvet, the seate and backe partlie embrothered, with 
R, L, in cloth of goulde, the beare and ragged staffe in clothe of silver, 
garnished with lace and fringe of goulde, silver, and crimson silck. The 
frame covered with velvet, bounde about the edge with goulde lace, and 
studded with gilte nailes. 

A square stoole and a foote stoole, of crimson velvet, fringed and gar- 
nished suteable. 

A long cushen of crimson velvet, embr. with the ragged staffe in a 
wreathe of goulde, with my Lo. posie ‘*‘ Droyte e¢ Loyall”’ written in the 
same, and the letters R. L. in clothe of goulde, being garnished with lace, 


* Probably on the centre and four corners of the bedstead. Four bearg 
and ragged staves occupied a similar position on another of these sumptus 
ous pieces of furniture, 

tie. Bruges, 


NOTES, 429 


fringe, buttons and tassels of gold, silver, and crimson silck, lyned with 
crimson taff., being in length 1 yard quarter. 
A square cushen, of the like velvet, embr. suteable to the long cushen, 


CARPETS. 


(There were 10 velvet carpets for tables and windows, 49 Turkey car. 
pets for floors, and 32 cloth carpets. One of each I will now specify.) 


A carpett of crimson velvet, richly embr. with my Lo. posie, beares and 
ragged staves, etc., of clothe of goulde and silver, garnished upon the 
seames and aboute with golde lace, fringed accordinglie, lyned with crimson 
taffata sarsenett, being 3 breadths of velvet, one yard 3 quarters long. 

A great Turquoy carpett, the grounde blew, with a list of yelloe at each 
end, being in length x yards, in bredthe iiij yards and quarter. 

“A long carpett of blew clothe, lyned with bridges sattin, fringed with 
blew silck and goulde, in length vj yards lack a quarte:, the whole bredth 
of the clothe. 


PICTURES, 
(Chiefly described as having curtains.) 


The Queene’s Majestie (2 great tables.) 3o0fmy Lord. St..Jerome. 
Lo of Arundell. Lord Mathevers. Lord of Pembroke. Counte Egmondt, 
The Queene of Scotts. King Philip. The Baker’s Daughters. The Duke 
of Feria. Alexander Magnus.. Two Yonge Ladies. Pompza Sabina, 
Fred D. of Saxony. Emp. Charles. K. Philip’s Wife. Prince of Orange 
and his wife. Marq. of Berges and his Wife. Counte de Horne. Count 
Holstrate. Monsr. Brederode. Duke Alva. Cardinal Grandville. Duches 
of Parma, Henrie E. of Pembrooke and his young Countess. Countis of 
iissex. Occacion and Repentance. Lord Mowntacute. S. Jas. Crofts. 
sir Wr. Mildmay. Sr. Wm. Pickering. Edwin Abp. of York. 

A tabell of an historie of men, women, and children, molden in wax. 

A little foulding table of ebanie, garnished with white bone, wherein are 
written verses with Ires. of goulde. 

A table of my Lord’s armes. 

Fyve of the plannetts painted in frames. 

Twentie-three cardes, * or maps of countries. 


INSTRUMENTS. 
(I shall give two specimens, ) 


An instrument of organs, regalls, and virginalls, covered with crimson 
velvet, and garnished with goulde lace. 
A fair pair of double virginalls. 


CABONETTS, 


A cabonett of crimson sattin, richlie embr. with a device of hunting the 
stage, in goulde, silver, and silck, with ilij giasses in the topp thereof, xvj 
cupps of flowers made of goulde, silver, and silck, in a case of leather, lyne 
with greene sattin of bridges, 

Another of purple velvet. A desk of red leather, 


*e7ie0 Charts 


430 NOTES. 


A Cuerss BoARDE of ebanie, with checkars of christal] and other stones, 
layed with silver, garnished with beares and ragged staves, and cinquefoilea 
of silver. The xxxij men likewyse of christall and other stones sett, the 
one sort in silver white, the other gilte, in a case gilded and lyned with 
green cotton. 

(Another of bone and ebanie. A pair of tabells of bone.) 


A GREAT BRASON CANDLESTICK to hang in the roofe of the howse, verie 
fayer and curiously wrought, with xxiiijj branches, xij greate and xij of 
lesser size, 6 rowlers and ij wings for the spread. eagle, xxilij socketts for 
candells xij greater and xij of a lesser sorte, xxilij sawcers, or candle-cupps 
of like proporcion to put under the socketts, iij images of men iij of women, 
of brass, verie finely and artificiallie done, 


These specimens of Leicester’s magnificence may serve to assure the 
reader that it scarce lay in the power of a modern author to exaggerate the 
lavish style of expense displayed in the princely pleasures of Kenilworth. 


NoTE L, p. 465.— DEATH OF THE EARL OF LEICESTER. 


In a curious manuscript copy of the information given by Ben Jonson ta 
Drummond of Hawthornden, as transcribed by Sir Robert Sibbald, Leices- 
ter’s death is ascribed to poison administered as a cordial by his countess, 
to whonr he had given it, representing it to be a restorative in any faintness 
in the hope that she herself might be cut off by using it. We have already 
quoted Jonson’s account of this merited stroke of retribution ina note, p. 
vi of Introduction to the present work. It may be here added, that the 
following satirical epitaph on Leicester occurs in Drummond’s Collection, 
but is evidently not of his composition :— : 


EPITAPH ON THE EARL OF LEISTER. 


Here lies a valiant warrior, Here lies the Earl of Leister, 
Who never drew a sword; . Who govern’d the Estates, 

Here lies a noble courtier, Whom the earth could never living 
Who never kept his word; love, 


And the just Heaven now hates. 


[See Archeologia Scotica, vol, iv.; and the volume published by the 
Shakespeare Society, odes of Ben Jonson’s Conversation, 1842, p. 24.] 


INDEX TO KENILWORTH. 


Apwarp’s work on Amye Robsart, x. 

Alasco (Dr. Doboobie), 96. Wayland’s nar- 
rative of, 110. Interview with Leicester, 
199. And with Varney, 202- Sent down 
to Cumnor, 210 In_ his laboratory, 240. 
His grand secret, 244. Found dead, 416. 
Note on Dr. Julio, 425. 

Amy Robsart, Goldthred’s account of. 15, 
Interview with Tressilian, 33. Descrip- 
tion of her, 51. Interview with Varney 
and Foster, 55- Visit of Leicester, 60. 
Begs him to declare their marriage, 64. 
Upholds Tressiiian, 70. The circumstances 
of her position, 86. Buys from the pedier 

Exciting interview with Varney, 235. 


217. 
Drinks the poison, 246. Escapes with 
Wayland, 248. Enters Kenilworth Castle, 


277. Gives Wayland a letter to Leicester, 
282. Meeting with ‘Tressilian, 288- Her 
case before the Queen, 315. Her apart- 
ment invaded by Lambourne, 332. Meet- 
ing with the Queen, 342. Exculpates 
Leicester, 347. Put in confinement, 348. 
Last interview with Leicester, 354. Slan- 
dered by Varney, 361. Her lost letter, 394. 
Carried back by Varney to Cumnor, 410. 
Arrival at the Place, 415. Her death, 
418. Note on, 426. 

Ashmole’s A ntiguities of Berkshire, ii. 

Astrology, belief in, 199. 

Atheism, insensibility of, 308, 


BRAR-BAITING, 187. 

Bear, the Leicester cognizance, 71. 

Black Bear Inn, 2. Scene with Alasco, 209. 
Note on, 422. 

Blount at Say’s Court, 147. Warns Raleigh 
of court favor, 193. His bright colors at 
Kenilworth, 303. Scene at his knighting, 


323. 
Burleigh advises the Queen, 4or. 
By Pol, Tre, and Pen, 12. 


Cxsar’s TowEr, 281. 

Chopin, zofe, 277. 

Courtier, requisites for, 76. 

Coventry, custom of fighting the Danes, 389. 
Cumnor Hall, poem, viii. 

Cumnor Place, 22. The apartments, 48, 
Cumnor village, 1. 


Day.iGuT, effect on watchers, 147. 
Dickie Sludge. See Flibbertigibbet. 
Doboobie, Dr. See Alasco. 


ELIZABETH, QUEEN, prejudice against, i. 
Her mode of governing, 140. Visits to 
Say’s Court, 152. Presents Raleigh with 
a jewel, 157. Holds court at Greenwich, 
164. Hears Tressilian’s petition, 168. In- 
terview with Leicester, 172. Replies to 
Raleigh’s rhyme, 192. Masculine charac- 
ter, 225. Royal entry into Kenilworth, 
307. Love passage with Leicester, 339. 
Meets Amy in the garden, 343. Scene 
after discovery of Leicester’s marriage, 400. 

Englishman, origin of his characteristics, 377. 

Entertainments at Kenilworth, zofe, 426. 


Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall, 


192. 
Flibbertigibbet, 99. Interview with Way- 
land, 106. Blows up. the smithy, 114. 
Meets Wayland with Amy, 262. Prompts 
the porter, 279. His inquisitiveness, 285. 
Arrests the arm of Leicester, and delivers 
Amy letters, 394- 
Foster, Tony, 13, 20. Interview with Lam- 
bourne, 25. Quotes Scripture to Amy, 
238. Tries to administer the poison, 24t. 
Praying in his sleep, 408. Arranges the 
trap, 418. His end, 420. Note on, 422. 
Furniture at Kenilworth, ofe, 427. 


GAMMER SLUDGE, 92. 

Gaoler at Kenilworth, encounter with Lam- 
bourne, 335. 

Giles Gosling the landlord, 2. Urges Tres. 
silian to flee, 82. Helps Wayland, 235. 

Golden Fleecc, order of, 62. 

Goldthred, the mercer of Cumnor, 6. Car- 
ousal with Jambourne, 211. His horse 
seized by Wayland, 258. 

Gosling. See Giles. 

Greenwhich, court at, 164. 


HARRINGTON, SiR JOHN, note, 427- 
He was the flower of Stoke’s red field, 85. 
Holiday, Herasmus, the schoolmaster 92. 
Hunsdon, Lord, bears off Amy, 348. 


432 


Inn, opening of the tale, 1. 
Italian rhymer, zoZe, 427. 


JANET Foster, 40. Her demure behavior, 
65. Intercepts the poison, 241. Aids 
Amy’s escape, 246. Weds Wayland, 420. 
Jealousy, a cure for, 59. 

Julio, Dr., note on, 425. 


KENILWORTH CASTLE, 272. Royal entry 
into, 307. Masquerades at, 375, 389. En- 
tertainmeuts at, vote, 427. Furniture, zote, 
427+ : 

Kenilworth, title of the novel, zofe, 422. 

Knighthood honors, time of Elizabeth, 323. 


LampBourne, MicHaki, at the inn, 5. In- 
terview with Foster at Cumnor Place, 25. 
Interrupts the combat, 38. Vaken into 
Varney’s service, 76. Sent down to Cum- 
nor with Alasco, 207. Orders Foster to 
meet himat the inn, 213.. Drunken apostro- 
phe on Foster, 222. Meets Tressilian at 
Kenilworth, 292. And expels Wayland, 
297. His welcome to the Queen, 311, 
Enters Amy’s apartment, 335. Shot by 
Varney, 413. Dies without his shoes, 405. 
Note on, 422. 

Laneham, Robert, at court, 181. 
426. 

Pantene Staples the gaoler’s encounter with 
Lambourne, 335. 

Leicester, Earl, slanders against, ii. Visit to 
Amy at Cumnor, 60. Ideas of his position, 
64. Dislike to ‘Tressilian, 70. At Green- 
wich Palace, 165. Success with, Eliza- 
beth, 173, 197. Consults Alasco, 199. 
Thoughts of his marriage with Elizabeth, 
226. Entryinto Kenilworth, 307 Grace- 
fulness and splendor of, 315. Meditations 
on his prospects, 326. Love passage with 
Elizabeth, 339. Confronted with Amy, 
347. Last interview with Amy, 354. 
Turns against her, 364. His terrible de- 
cision, 371. Tries to delay Varney, 382. 
Encounter with Tressilian, 385. Inter- 
rupted by Flibbertigibbet, 394. Confession 
to the Queen, 400. Death of, xole, 4316 

Lidcote Hal}, 120. 


Marriacg, left-handed, 329- 

Martin Swart and his men, 85. 

Mary Stuart, her captivity, 179+ 

Masquerades at Kenilworth, 375, 389. 

Mickle, author of Cumnor Hall, x. 

Mortimer’s Tower, 279. 

Mumblazen at Lidcote, 123. 
silian with his purse, 130. 


Note on, 


Supplies Tres- 


Or act the birds on bush or tree, 12. 

Parsons the Jesuit, iv. 

Pedlers, time of tale, 210. 

Personal ‘appearance a species of self-love, 
305. Never unimportant to woman, 338. 

Philosopher’s stone, 205, 244. 

Play, opinions of the, 188. 

Porter at Kenilworth, 277. 
the Queen, 309. 

Poison scene, 241-246. ' 

Prisoner, danger of murdering a, 299. 


His speech to 


RaxzicH. WALTER, at Say’s Court, 148. 


INDEX. 


Lays his cloak down for the Queen, 15% 
In the royal barge, 185. Inscribes a line 
to Elizabeth on the window pane, 192, 
At Kenilworth, 303. Gracious reception by 
the Queen, 314. Knighted, 322. Notes 
on, 424. 

Robsart family, account of, 85. 

Robsart, Sir Hugh, 123. 


Say’s Court, t4o. 
Shakspeare at court, 180. 
Sidney, Philip, 189. 
Sludge. See Flibbertigibbet and Gamme: 
Spenser the poet, 180. + 
Stand forth, my Lord of Leicester! 345 
Sussex, Earl of, 140. Takes Wayland’s 
medicine, 145. At Greenwich Palace, 164. 
Alasco’s attempt on, 203. At Kenilworth, 
220s 


Opinions of, i8¢ 


THE DeEws of summer night did fall, viii. 

Tony. See Foster. 

Tressilian at the inn, 9. 
Place, 22. Interview with Amy, 33. Ren- 
contre with Varney, 37. Leicester’s dis~ 
like to, 70. His tale of the Robsart family 
85. Arrives at the Vale of Whitehorse, 
gt. Interview with Wayland, 105. Are 
rival at Lidcote Hall, rar. Ordered to 
court by Sussex, 132. Arrival at Say’s 
Court, 142. His pstition at Greenwich, 
170. Interview with the Queen, 174. 
Meets Amy at Kenilworth, 288. Offends 
the Queen, 314. Encounter with Leicester 
385. Rescued by Flibbertigibbet, 394. 
Before Elizabeth after the discovery, 4o1 
Arrival at Cumnor too late, 420. 

Truth the foundation of honor, 357. 


Visit to Cumnor 


VARNEY, RICHARD, rencontre with Tres 
silian, 37... Account of Amy Robsart’s 
position, 45. Interview with her, 55. 
Dissuades him from leaving the court, 68. 
Takes Lambourne into his service, 76. Re- 
jected by the usher at Greenwich, 165. Ex- 
tricates his master out. of a dilemma 170. 
Sends Alasco down to Cumnor, 205. Plies 
his invention, 228, Administers the poison 
245. Presents certificates of Amy’s :ill- 
health, 316. Knighted, 321. Extricatés 
Leicester from his difficulty with the Queen, 
348. His crisis, 358. Slanders Amy to 
Leicester, 36:. Carries her off to Cumnor, 
408. Shoots Lambourne, 413. Sets the 
trap, 417. Suicide, 420. 

Venice treacle, 139. 


Way.Lanpb SmitH, Holiday’s account of, 97. 
strprised by Tressilian, 105. Narrative of 
his life. 110. His den blown up, 114. Ad- 
ministers a draught to Sir Hugh Robsart, 
129. Buys medicine from the Jew, 137. 
Administers to the Earl of Sussex, 145. 
Sent down to Cumnor, 194. Interview 
with Amy asa pedler, 215. Aias her es 
cape to Kenilworth, 253. Loses the letter, 
294. Expelled from the castle, 257. Weds 
Janet, 420. . Note on, 423. 

What stir, what turmoil, have we for the 
nones? 309, 

Whitehorse Vale, 91. 

Woodstock Park, 79. 


Note on, 424. 


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ST. RONAN’S WELL 


BY 


SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 


A merry place, ’tis said, in days of yore; 
But something ails it now—the place is cursed. 
— WORDSWORTH. 


NEW YORK 
CLARKE, GIVEN & HOOPER 
PUBLISHERS 


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THE novel which follows is upon a plan different from any 
other that the Author has ever written, although it is perhaps the 
most legitimate which relates to this kind of light literature. 

It is intended, in a word—celebrare domestica facta—to give 
an imitation of the shifting manners of our own time, and paint 
scenes, the originals of which are daily passing round us, so that 
a minute’s observation may compare the copies with the originals. 
It must be confessed that this style of composition was adopted 
by the Author rather from the tempting circumstance of its_ offer- 
ing some novelty in his compositions, and avoiding worn-out char- 
acters and positions, than from the hope of rivalling the many 
formidable competitors who have already won deserved honors in 
this department. The ladies, in particular, gifted by nature with 
keen powers of observation and light satire, have been so distin- 
guished by these works of talent, that, reckoning from the author- 
ess of ‘‘ Evelina”* to her of ‘ Marriage,”}+ a catalogue might be 
made, including the brilliant and talented names of Edgeworth, 
Austin, Charlotte Smith, and others, whose success seems to have 
appropriated this province of the novelas exclusively theirown. It 
was therefore with a sense of temerity that the Author intruded upon 
a species of composition which had been of late practised with 
such distinguished success. This consciousness was lost, however, 
under the necessity of seeking for novelty, without which it was 
much to be apprehended such repeated incursions on his part 
would nauseate the long indulgent public at the last. 

The scene chosen for the Author’s little drama of modern life 
was a mineral spring, such as are to be found in both divisions of 
Britain, and which are supplied with the usual materials for re- 
deeming health, or driving away care. The invalid often finds 


* [Miss Burney. } t [Miss Ferrier.] 


iv INTRODUCTION, 


relief from his complaints, less from the healing virtues of the Spa 
itself, than because his system of ordinary life undergoes an en- 
tire change, in his being removed from his ledger and account- 
book—from his legal folios and progresses of title-deeds—from 
his counter and shelves—from whatever else forms the main 
source of his constant anxiety at home, destroys his appetite, 
mars the custom of his exercise, deranges the digestive powers, 
and clogs up the springs of life. hither, too, comes the saun- 
terer, anxious to get rid of that wearisome attendant, Aimsel/f ; and 
thither come both males and females, who upon a different prin- 
ciple desire to make themselves double.* 

The society of such places is regulated, by their very nature, 
upon ascheme much more indulgent than that which rules the 
world of fashion, and the narrow circles of rank, birth, and fort- 
une are received at a watering-place without any very strict in- 
vestigation, as adequate to the purpose for which they are pre- 
ferred; and as the situation infers a certain degree of intimacy 
and sociability for the time, so, to whatever heights it may have 
been carried, it is not understood to imply any duration beyond 
the length of the season. No intimacy can be supposed more 
close for the time, and more transitory in its endurance, than that 
which is attached to a watering-place acquaintance. ‘The novel- 
ist, therefore, who fixes upon suclra scene for his tale, endeavors 
to display a species of society where the strongest contrast of 
humorous characters and manners may be brought to bear on and 
illustrate each other, with less violation of probability than could 
be supposed to attend the same miscellaneous assemblage in any 
other situation. 

In such scenes, too, are frequently mingled characters, not 
merely ridiculous, but dangerous and hateful. The unprincipled 
gamester, the heartless fortune-hunter, all those who eke out their 
means of subsistence by pandering to the vices and follies of the 
rich and gay—who drive, by their various arts, foibles into crimes, 
and imprudence into acts of ruinous madness—are to be found 
where their victims naturally resort, with the same certainty that 
eagles are gathered together at the place of slaughter. By this the 


* NOTE—GILSLAND SPA, 


(Mr. Lockhart tells us that, ‘‘ after the rising of the Court of Session in 
July, 1797, Scott set out on a tour to the lakes of Cumberland, and at length 
fixed his headquarters at the then peaceful and sequestered little watering- 
place of Gilsland, from which he made excursions to the various scenes of 
romantic interest commemorated in the Bridal of Triermain, and otherwise 
led very much the sort of life depicted among the loungers of St. Ronan’s 
Well.”” Here also he fell in with his future wife, with whom he revisited the 
Spa in 1805. 

There has been some dubiety expressed respecting the probable prototype 
of St. Ronan’s Well, and several villages have laid claim to the identity. 
Judging, however, from the description in the novel, it is certain the Author 
had no single place in his mind, but allowed his imagination a much wider 
range. While the scenery and localities depicted in the text may be partly 
recognized in Tweedside and the villages of Selkirk, Peebles, or Innerleithen, 
the descriptions of spa-life will more correctly apply to such a watering-place 
as that of Gilsland.] 


LINIRODUCTION, V 


Author takes a great advantage for the management of his story, 
particularly in its darker and more melancholy passages.. The 
impostor, the gambler, all who live loose upon. the skirts of society, 
or, like vermin, thrive by its corruptions, are to be found at such 
retreats, when they easily, and as a matter of course, mingle with 
these dupes, who might otherwise have escaped their snares. But 
besides those characters who are actually dangerous to society, a 
well-frequented watering-place generally exhibits for the. amuse- 
ment of the company, and the perplexity and amazement of the 
more inexperienced, a sprinkling of persons, called by the news- 
papers eccentric characters—individuals, namely, who, either 
from some real derangement of their understanding, or, much 
more frequently, from an excess of vanity, are ambitious of distin- 
guishing themselves by some striking peculiarity.in dress or ad- 
dress, conversation or manners, and perhaps in all, These affec- 
tations are usually adopted, like Drawcansir’s.* extravagances, to 
show they dave, and, 1 must needs say, those who profess them 
are more frequently to be found among the English than among the’ 
natives of either of the other two divisions of the united kingdoms. 
The reason probably is, that the consciousness of wealth, and a 
sturdy feeling of independence, which generally pervade the Eng- 
lish nation, are, in a few individuals, perverted into absurdity, or 
at least peculiarity. The witty Irishman, on the contrary, adapts 
his general behavior to that of the best society, or that which he 
thinks such ; nor is it any part of the shrewd Scot’s national char- 
acter unnecessarily to draw upon himself public attention. These 
rules, however, are not without their exceptions ; for we find men 
of every country playing the eccentric at these independent resorts 
of the gay and the wealthy, where everyone enjoys the licence of 
doing what is good in his own eyes. 

It scarce needed these obvious remarks to justify a novelist’s 
choice of a watering-place as the scene of a fictitious narrative. 
Unquestionably it affords every variety of character, mixed to- 
gether in a manner which cannot, without a breach of probability, 
be supposed to exist elsewhere ; neither can it be denied that, in 
the concourse which such miscellaneous collections of persons 
afford, events extremely different from those of the quiet routine 
of ordinary life may, and often do, take place. 

It is not, however, sufficient that a mine be in itself rich and 
easily accessible ; it is necessary that the engineer who explores it 
should himself, in mining phrase, have an accurate knowledge of 
the country, and possess the skill necessary to work it to advan- 
tage. In this respect, the Author of ‘St. Roman’s Well” could not 
be termed fortunate. His habits of life had not led him much, of 
late years at least, into its general or bustling scenes, nor had he 
mingled often in the society which enables the observer to “ shoot 
folly as it flies.” The consequence perhaps was, that the charac- 
ters wanted that force and precision which can only be given by a 


*{Drawcansir was a name used in some of the controversial pamphlets 
connected with the ‘‘ Medical Wars" carried on in Edinburgh about the 
time this was written ] 


vi INTRODUCTION. 


writer who is familiarly acquainted with his subject.* The Author, 
however, had the satisfaction to chronicle his testimony against 
the practice of gambling, a vice which the devil had contrived to 
render all his own, since it is deprived of whatever pleads an apol- 
ogy for other vices, and is founded entirely on the cold-blooded 
calculation of the most exclusive selfishness. The character of 
the traveller, meddling self-important, and what the ladies call fuss- 
ing, but yet generous and benevolent in his purposes, was partly 
taken from nature. The story, being entirely modern, cannot re- 
quire much explanation, after what has been here given, either in 
the shape of notes, or a more prolix introduction. 

It may be remarked, that the English critics, in many in- 
stances, though none of great influence, pursued ‘*St. Ronan’s Well” 
with hue and cry, many of the fraternity giving it as their opinion ~ 
that the Author had exhausted himself, or, as the technical phrase 
expresses it, written himself out ; and as an unusual tract of suc- 
cess too often provokes many persons to mark and exaggerate a 
slip when it does occur, the Author was publicly accused, in prose 
and verse, of having committed a literary suicide in this unhappy 
attempt. The voices, therefore, were, for a time, against St. 
.Ronan’s on the southern side of the Tweed. 

In the Author’s country it was otherwise. Many of the characters 
were recognized as genuine Scottish portraits, and the good fortune 
which had hitherto attended the productions of the Author of Wa- 
verley did not desert, notwithstanding the ominous vaticinations of 
its censurers, this new attempt, although out of his ordinary style. 

ABBOTSFORD, ist February, 1832. . 


* NOTE—WATERING-PLACE CHARACTERS. 


[ ‘‘ There is no doubt the Author dashed off the minor personages in ‘‘ St. 
Ronan’'s Well” with—to use a painter's phrase—a rich brush; but I believe 
they have far more truth about them than the critics seemed willing to al- 
low; and if any of my readers, whether Scotch or English, has ever hap- 
pened to spend a few months, not in either an English or a Scotch watering- 
place of the present day, but among such miscellaneous assemblages of 
British nondescripts and outcasts—including often persons of higher birth 
than any of the deau monde of St. Ronan’s Well—as now infest many towns 
of France and Switzerland, he will, I am satisfied, be inclined to admit that, 
while the Continent was shut, as it was in the days of Sir Walter’s youthful 
wanderings, a trip to such a sequestered place as Gilsland, or Moffat, or In- 
nerleithen (almost as inaccessible to London duns and bailiffs as the Isle of 
Man was then, or as Boulogne and Dieppe are now) may have supplied the 
future novelist’s notebook with authentic materials even for such worthies as 
Sir Bingo and Lady Binks, Dr. Quackleben and Mr. Winterblossom. It 
should moreover be borne in mind, that during our insular blockade, north- 
ern watering-places were not alone favored by the resort of questionable 
characters from the south. The comparative cheapness of living, and espe- 
cially of education, procured for Sir Walter’s ‘‘own romantic town” a con- 
stant succession of such visitants, so long as they could haye no access to the 
tables @hote and dancing-saloons of the Continent. When I first mingled in 
the society of Edinburgh, it abounded with English, broken in character and 
in fortune, who found a mere title (even a baronet's one) of consequence 
enough to obtain for them, from the proverbially cautious Scotch, a degree 
of attention to which they had long been accustomed among those who had 
chanced to. observe the progress of their personal histories; and I heard 
many name, when the novel was new, a booby of some rank, in whom they 
recognized a sufficiently accurate prototype for Sir Bingo,""—J. G. Lock- 
HART. ] 


AN OLD-WORLD LANDLADY. 


But to make up my tale, 
She breweth good ale, 
And thereof maketh sale, 


SKELTON. 


ALTHOUGH few, if any, of the countries of Europe have in- 
creased so rapidly in wealth and cultivation as Scotland during 
the last half-century, Sultan Mahmoud’s owls might neverthe- 
less have found in Caledonia, at any term within that flourish- 
ing period, their dowery of ruined villages. Accident or local 
advantages have, in many instances, transferred the inhabitants 
of ancient hamlets, from the situations which their predecessors 
chose, with more respect to security than convenience, to those 
in which their increasing industry and commerce could more 
easily expand itself ; and hence places which stand distinguished 
in Scottish history, and which figure in David M‘Pherson’s 
excellent historical map, can now only be discerned from the 
wild moor by the verdure which clothes their site, or, at best, 
by a few scattered ruins, resembling pinfolds, which mark the 
spot of their former existence. 

The little village of St. Ronan’s, though it had not yet fal- 
len into the state of entire oblivion we have described, was 
about twenty years since, fast verging toward it. The situation 
had something in it so romantic, that it provoked the pencil of 


2 S7. RONAN’S WELL. 


every passing tourist; and we will endeavor, therefore, to 
describe it in language which can scarcely be less intelligible 
than some of their sketches, avoiding, however, for reasons 
which seem to us of weight, to give any more exact indication 
of the site, than that it is on the southern side of the Forth, 
and not above thirty miles distant from the English frontier.* 

A river of considerable magnitude pours its streams through 
a narrow vale, varying in breadth from two miles to a fourth of 
that distance, and which, being composed of rich alluvial soil, 
is, and has long been enclosed, tolerably well inhabited, and 
cultivated with all the skill of Scottish agriculture. Either side 
of this valley is bounded by a chain of hills, which, on the right 
in particular, may be almost termed mountains. Little brooks 
arising-in these ridges, and finding their way to the river, offer 
each its own little vale to the industry of the cultivator. Some 
cf them bear fine large trees, which have as yet escaped the axe, 
and upon the sides of most there are scattered patches and 
fringes of natural copsewood, above and around which the banks 
of the stream arise, somewhat desolate in the colder months, 
but in summer glowing with dark purple heath, or with the 
golden lustre of the broom and gorse. ‘This is asort of scenery 
peculiar to those countries, which abound, like Scotland, in hills 
and in streams, and where the traveler is ever and anon dis- 
covering, in some intricate and unexpected recess, a simple 
and silvan beauty, which pleases him the more, that it seems to 
be: peculiarly his own property as the first discove ‘er. 

In one of these recesses, and so near its opening as to com- 
mand the prospect of the river, the broader valley, and the op- 
posite chain of hills, stood, and unless neglect and desertion 
have completed their work, still stands, the ancient and decayed 
village of St. Ronan’s. The site was singularly picturesque, as 
the straggling street of the village ran up a very steep hill, on 
the side of which were clustered, as it were upon little terraces, 
the cottages which composed the place, seeming, as in the Swiss 
towns on the Alps, to rise above each other toward the ruins 
of an old castle, which continued to occupy the crest of the 
eminence, and the strength of which had doubtless led the 
neighborhood to assemble under its walls for protection. It 
must, indeed, have been a place of formidable defence, for, on 
the side opposite to the town, its walls rose straight up from 
the verge of a tremendous and rocky precipice, whose base 
was washed by St. Ronan’s Burn, as the brook was entitled. 


* [See note to Introduction, p. 2.] 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 3 


On the southern side, where the declivity was less precipitous, 
the ground had been carefully leveled into successive terraces, 
which ascended to the summit of the hill, and were, or rather 
had been, connected by staircases of stone, rudely ornamented. 
In peaceful periods these terraces had been occupied by the 
gardens of the Castle and in times of siege they added to its 
security, for each commanded the one immediately below it, so 
that they could be separately and successively defended, and 
all were exposed to the fire from the place itself—a massive 
square tower of the largest size, surrounded, as usual, by lower 
buildings, and a high embattled wall. On the northern side 
arose a considerable mountain, of which the descent that lay 
between the eminence on which the Castle was situated seemed 
a detached portion, and which had been improved and deep- 
ened by three successive huge trenches. Another very deep 
trench was drawn in front of the main entrance from the 
east, where the principal gateway formed the termination of 
the street, which, as we have noticed, ascended from the vil- 
lage, and this last defence completed the fortifications of the 
tower. 

In the ancient gardens of the Castle, and upon all sides of 
it excepting the western, which was precipitous, large old trees 
had found root, mantling the rock and the ancient and ruinous 
walls with their dusky verdure, and increasing the effect of the 
shattered pile which towered up from the centre. 

Seated on the threshold of this ancient pile, where the 
“proud porter ”’ had in former days “ reared himself,” * a stran- 
ger had a complete and commanding view of the decayed vil- 
age, the houses of which, to a fanciful imagination, might seem 
as if they had been suddenly arrested in hurrying down the 
precipitous hill, and fixed as if by magic in the whimsical 
arrangement which they now presented. It was like a sudden 
pause in one of Amphion’s country-dances, when the huts 
which were to form the future Thebes were jigging it to his 
lute. But, with such an observer, the melancholy excited by 
the desolate appearance of the village soon overcame all the 
lighter frolics of the imagination. Originally constructed on 
the humble plan used in the building of Scotch cottages about 
a century ago, the greater part of them had been long desert- 
ed; and their fallen roofs, blackened gables, and ruinous walls, 
showed Desolation’s triumph over Poverty. On some huts the 
rafters, varnished with soot, were still standing, in whole or in 


* See the old ballad of King Estmere, in PERcY’s Religues. 


4 ST. RONAN S WELL, 


part, like skeletons, and a few, wholly or partially covered with 
thatch, seemed still inhabited, though scarce habitable ; for the 
smoke of the peat-fires, which prepared the humble meal of the 
indwellers, stole upward, not only from the chimneys, its reg- 
ular vent, but from various other crevices inthe roofs. Nature, 
in the meanwhile, always changing, but renewing as she 
changes, was supplying, by the power of vegetation, the fallen 
and decaying marks of human labor. Small pollards, which 
had been formally planted around the little gardens, had now 
waxed into huge and high forest trees ; the fruit trees had ex- 
tended their branches over the verges of the little yards, and 
the hedges had shot up into huge and irregular bushes ; while 
quantities of dock, and nettles, and hemlock, hiding the ruined 
walls, were busily converting the whole scene of desolation into 
a picturesque forest bank. 

Two houses in St. Ronan’s were still in something like 
decent repair; places essential—the one to the spiritual weal 
of the inhabitants, the other to the accommodation of travel- 
lers. These were the clergyman’s manse, and the village 
inn. Of the former we need only say that it formed no excep- 
tion to the general rule by which the landed proprietors of Scot- 
land seemed to proceed in lodging their clergy, not only in the 
cheapest, but in the ugliest and most inconvenient house which 
the genius of masonry can contrive. It had the usual number 
of chimneys—two, namely—rising like asses’ ears at either end, 
which answered the purpose for which they were designed as 
ill as usual. It had all the ordinary leaks and inlets to the 
fury of the elements, which usually form the subject of the com- 
plaints of a Scottish incumbent to his brethren of the Presby- 
tery : and, to complete the picture, the clergyman being a bach- 
elor, the pigs had unmolested admission to the garden and 
courtyard, broken windows were repaired with brown. paper, 
and the disordered and squalid appearance of a low farm-house, 
occupied by a bankrupt tenant, dishonored the dwelling of 
one, who, besides his clerical character, was a scholar and a 
gentleman, though little of a humorist. 

Beside the manse stood the kirk of St. Ronan’s, a little old 
mansion with a clay floor, and an assemblage of wretched pews, 
originally of carved oak, but heedfully clouted with white fir- 
deal. But the external form of the church was elegant in the 
outline, having been built in Catholic times, when we cannot 
deny to the forms of ecclesiastical architecture that grace, which, 
as good Protestants, we refuse to their doctrine. ‘The fabric 
hardly raised its gray and vaulted roof among the crumbling 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. g 
hills of mortality by which it was surrounded, and was indeed 
so small in size, and so much lowered in height by the graves 
on the outside, which ascended half-way up the low Saxon 
windows, that it might itself have appeared only a funeral vault, 
or mausoleum of larger size. Its little square tower, with the 
ancient belfry, alone distinguished it from such a monument. 
But when the gray-headed beadle turned the keys with his 
shaking hand, the antiquary was admitted into an ancient 
building, which, from the style of its architecture, and some 
monuments of the Mowbrays of St. Ronan’s which the old 
man was accustomed to point out, was generally conjectured to 
be as early as the thirteenth century. 

These Mowbrays of St. Ronan’s seem to have been at one 
time a very powerful family. They were allied to and friends 
of the house of Douglas, at the time when the overgrown 
power of that heroic race made the Stewarts tremble on the 
Scottish throne. It followed that, when, as our old zaz/ histo- 
lan expresses it, “ no one dared to strive with a Douglas, nor 
yet with a Douglas’s man, for if he did, he was sure to come 
by the waur,” the family of St. Ronan’s shared their prosperity, 
and became lords of almost the whole of the rich valley of which 
their mansion commanded the prospect. Butupon the turning 
of the tide, in the reign of James II., they became despoiled of 
the greater part of those fair acquisitions, and succeeding events 
reduced their importance still further. Nevertheless, they 
were, in the middle of the seventeenth century, still a family of 
considerable note ; and Sir Reginald Mowbray, after the un- 
happy battle of Dunbar, distinguished himself by the obstinate 
defence of the Castle against the arms of Cromwell, who, in- 
censed at the opposition which he had unexpectedly encountered 
in an obscure corner, caused the fortress to be dismantled and 
blown up with gunpowder. 

After this catastrophe, the old Castle was abandoned to 
ruin ; but Sir Reginald, when, like Allan Ramsay’s Sir William 
Worthy, he returned after the Revolution, built himself a house 
in the fashion of that later age, which he prudently suited in 
size to the diminished fortunes of his family. It was situated 
about the middle of the village, whose vicinity was not in those 
days judged any inconvenience, upon a spot of ground more 
level than was presented by the rest of the acclivity, where, as 
we said before, the houses were notched as it were into the side 
of the steep bank, with little more level ground about them than 
the spot occupied by their site. But the Laird’s house had a 
court in front and a small garden behind, connected with another 


6 : ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


garden, which, occupying three terraces, descended, in emula 
tion of the orchards of the old Castle, almost to the banks of 
the stream. 

The family continued to inhabit this new messuage until 
about fifty years before the commencement of our history, when 
it was much damaged by a casual fire ; andthe Laird of the 
day, having just succeeded to a more pleasant and commodious 
dwelling at the distance of about three miles from the village, 
determined to abandon the habitation of his ancestors. As he 
cut down at the same time an ancient rookery (perhaps to 
defray the expenses of the migration), it became a common 
remark among the country folk, that the decay of St. Ronan’s 
began when Laird Lawrence and the crows flew off. 

The deserted mansion, however, was not consigned to owls 
and birds of the desert ; on the contrary, for many years it wit- 
nessed more fun and festivity than when it had been the 
sombre abode ofa grave Scottish Baron of “ auld Jang syne.” 
In short, it was converted into an inn, and marked by a huge 
sign, representing on the one side St. Ronan catching hold of 
the devil’s game-leg with his Episcopal crook, as the story may 
be read in his veracious legend, and on the other the Mowbray 
arms. It was by far the best frequented public-house in that 
vicinity ; and a thousand stories were told of the revels which 
had been held within its walls, and the gambols achieved under 
the influence of its liquors. All this, however, had long since 
passed away, according to the lines in my frontispiece. 


** A merry place, ’twas said, in days of yore 3 
But something ail’d it now—the place was cursed.” 


The worthy couple (servants and favorites of the Mowbray 
family) who first kept the inn, had died reasonably wealthy, af- 
ter long carrying on a flourishing trade, leaving behind them 
an only daughter. ‘They had acquired by degrees not only the 
property of the inn itself, of which they were originally tenants, 
but of some remarkably good meadow-land by the side of the 
brook, which, when touched by a little pecuniary necessity, the 
Lairds of St. Ronan’s had disposed of piecemeal, as the readiest 
way to portion off a daughter, procure a commission for the 
younger son, and the like emergencies. So that Meg Dods, 
when: she succeeded to her parents, was a considerable heiress, 
and, as such, had the honor of refusing three topping farmers, 
two bonnet-lairds, and a horse-couper, who successively made 
proposals to her. | 

Many bets were laid on the horse-couper’s success, but the 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 4 


knowing ones were taken in. Determined to ride the forehorse 
herself, Meg would admit no helpmate who might soon assert 
the rights of a master; and so, in single blessedness, and with 
the despotism of Queen Bess herself, she ruled all matters with 
a high hand, not only over her men-servants and maid-servants, 
but over the stranger within her gates, who, if he ventured to 
oppose Meg’s sovereign will and pleasure, or desired to have 
either fare or accommodation different from that which she 
chose to provide for him, was instantly ejected with that answer 
which Erasmus tells us silenced all complaints in the German 
inns of his time, Quere aliud hospitium,* or, as Meg expressed 
it, ‘“* Troop aff wi’ ye to another public.” As this amounted to 
a banishment in extent equal to sixteen miles from Meg’s resi- 
dence, the unhappy party on whom it was passed had no other 
refuge save by deprecating the wrath of his landlady, and re- 
signing himself to her will. It is but justice to Meg Dods to 
state, that though hers was a severe and almost despotic govern- 
ment, it could not be termed a tyranny, since it was exercised 
upon the whole for the good of the subject. 

The vaults of the old Laird’s cellar had not, even in his own 
day, been replenished with more excellent wines; the only diff- 
culty was to prevail on Meg to look for the precise liquor you 
chose ;—to which it may be added, that she often became res- 
tive when she thought a company had had “as much as did 
them good,” and refused to furnish any more supplies. ‘Then 
her kitchen was her pride and glory ; she looked to the dress- 
ing of every dish herself, and there were some with which she 
suffered no one to interfere. Such were the cock-a-leeky, and 
the savory minced collops, which rivaled in their way even the 
veal cutlets of our old friend Mrs. Hall, at Ferrybridge. Meg’s 
table-linen, bed-linen, and so forth, were always home made, of 
the best quality, and in the best order; and a weary day was 
that to the chambermaid in which her lynx eye discovered any 
neglect of the strict cleanliness which she constantly enforced. 
Indeed, considering Meg’s country and calling, we were never 
able to account for her extreme and scrupulous nicety, unless 
by supposing that it afforded her the most apt and frequent pre- 
text for scolding her maids ; an exercise in which she displayed 
so much eloquence and energy, that we must needs believe it 
to have been a favorite one.f 


* In a colloquy of Erasmus, called Diversaria, there is avery unsavory 
description of a German inn of the period, where an objection of the guest 
is answered in the manner expressed in the text—a great sign of want of 
competition on the road. 

t This circumstance sbows of itself,that the Meg Dods of the tale cannot 


8 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


We have only further to commemorate the moderation of 
Meg’s reckonings, which, when they closed the banquet, often 
relieved the apprehensions, instead of saddening the heart, of 
the rising guest. <A shilling for breakfast, three shillings for 
dinner, including a pint of old port, eighteenpence for a snug 
supper—such were the charges of the inn at St. Ronan’s, under 
this landlady of the olden world, even after the nineteenth cen- 
tury had commenced; and they were ever tendered with the 
pious recollection, that her good father never charged half so 
much, but these weary times rendered it impossible for her to 
make the lawing less.* 

Notwithstanding all these excellent and rare properties, the 
inn at St. Ronan’s shared the decay of the village to which it 
belonged. ‘Fhis was owing.to various circumstances. ‘The 
high-road had been turned aside from the place, the steepness 
of the street being murder (so the postilions declared) to their 
post-horses. It was thought that Meg’s stern refusal to treat 
them with liquor, or to connive at their exchanging for porter 
and whisky the corn which should feed their cattle, had no 
small influence on the opinion of those respectable gentlemen, 
and that a little cutting and leveling would have made the 
ascent easy enough ; but let that pass. ‘This alteration of the 
highway was an injury which Meg did not easily forgive to the 
country gentlemen, most of whom she had recollected when 
children. ‘“ Their fathers,” she said, ‘wad not have done the 
like of it toa lone woman.” Then the decay of the village 
itself, which had formerly contained a set of feuars and bonnet- 
lairds, who, under the name of the Chirupping Club, contrived 
to drink twopenny, qualified with brandy or whisky, at least 
twice or thrice a week, was some small loss. 

The temper and manners of the landlady scared away all 
customers of that numerous class, who will not allow originality 
to be an excuse for the breach of decorum, and who, little 
accustomed perhaps to attendance at home, love to play the 
great man at an inn, and to have a certain number of bows, 
deferential speeches, and apologies, in answer to the G—d—n 
ve’s which they bestow on the house, attendance, and enter- 
tainment. Unto those who commenced this sort of barter in 
the Clachan of St. Ronan’s, well could Meg Dods pay it back, 
in their own coin; and glad they were to escape from the 
house with eyes not quite scratched out, and ears not more 


be identified with her namesake Jenny Dods, who kept the inn at Howgate, 
onthe Peebles road ; for Jenny, far. different from our heroine, was ur 
matched as a slattern. 

* Note A. Inn charges. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 9 


deafened than if they had been within hearing of a pitched 
battle. 

Nature had formed honest Meg for such encounters; and 
as her noble soul delighted in them, so her outward properties 
were in what ‘Tony Lumpkin calls a concatenation accordingly. 
She had hair of a brindled color, betwixt black and gray, which 
was apt to escape in elf-locks from under her mutch when she 
was thrown into violent agitation—long skinny hands, termi 
nated by stout talons—gray eyes, thin lips, a robust person, a 
broad, though flat chest, capital wind, and a voice that could 
match a choir of fish-women. She was accustomed to say of 
herself, in her more gentle moods, that her bark was worse 
than her bite; but what teeth could have matched a tongue, 
which, when in full career, is vouched to have been heard from 
the Kirk to the Castle of St. Ronan’s? 

These notable gifts, however, had no charms for the travelers 
of these light and giddy-paced times, and Meg’s inn became 
less and less frequented. What carried the evil to the utter- 
most was, that a fanciful lady of rank in the neighborhood 
chanced to recover of some imaginary complaint by the use of 
a mineral well about a mile and a half from the village; a 
fashionable doctor was found to write an analysis of the heal- 
ing waters, with a list of sundry cures; a speculative builder 
took land in feu, and erected lodging-houses, shops, and even 
streets. At length a tontine subscription was obtained to erect 
an inn, which, for the more grace, was called a hotel; and so 
the desertion of Meg Dods became general.* 

She had still, however, her friends and well-wishers, many 
of whom thought, that as she was a lone woman, and known to 
be well to pass in the world, she would act wisely to retire from 
public life, and take down a sign which had no longer fascina- 
tion for guests. But Meg’s spirit scorned submission direct or 
implied. “Her father’s door,” she said, “should be open to— 
the road, till her father’s bairn should be streekit and carried 
out at it with her feet foremost. It was not for the profit— 
there was little profit at it ;—profit ?—there was a dead loss; 
—but she wad not be dung by any of them. They maun hae a 
hottle,f maun they ?—and an honest public canna serve them ! 
They may hottle that likes; but they shall see that Lucky Dods 
can hottle on as Jang as the best of them—ay, though they had 
made a Tamteen of it, and linkit a’ their breaths of lives, whilk 


* Note B. Building-feus in Scotland. 
+ This Gallic word (hétel) was first introduced in Scotland during the 
Author’s childhood, and was so pronounced by the lower class. 


ite) ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


are in their nostrils, on end of ilk other like a string of wild 
geese, and the langest liver bruick a’ (whilk was sinful pre- 
sumption), she would match ilk ane of them, as lang as her ain 
wind held out.” Fortunate it was for Meg, since she had 
formed this doughty resolution, that although her inn had de- 
cayed in custom, her land had risen in value in a degree which 
more than compensated the balance on the wrong side of her 
books, and, joined to her usual providence and economy, 
enabled her to act up to her lofty purpose. 

She prosecuted her trade too with every attention to its 
diminished income ; shut up the windows of one half of her 
house, to baffle the tax-gatherer; retrenched her furniture ; 
discharged her pair of post-horses, and pensioned off the old 
hump-backed postilion who drove them, retaining his services, 
however, as an assistant toastill more aged hostler. To console 
herself for restrictions by which her pride was secretly wounded, 
she agreed with the celebrated Dick Tinto to repaint her father’s 
sign, which had become rather undecipherable; and Dick 
accordingly gilded the Bishop’s crook and augmented the horrors 
of the Devil’s aspect, until it became a terror to all the younger 
fry of the school-house, and a sort of visible illustration of the 
terrors of the arch-enemy, with which the minister endeavored 
to impress their infant minds. 

Under this renewed symbol of her profession, Meg Dods, or 
Meg Dorts, as she was popularly termed on account of her 
refractory humors, was still patronized by some steady cus- 
tomers. Such were the members of the Killnakelty Hunt, once 
famous on the turf and in the field, but now a set of venerable 
gray-headed sportsmen, who had sunk from foxhounds to 
basket-beagles and coursing, and who made an easy canter on 
their quiet nags a gentle induction to a dinner at Meg’s. “A 
set of honest decent men they were,” Meg said; ‘had their 
sang and their joke—and what forno? Their bind was just 
a Scots pint over-head, and a tappit-hen to the bill, and no 
man ever saw them the waur o’t. It was thae cockle-brained 
callants of the present day that would be mair owerta’en with 
a puir quart than douce folks were with a magnum.” 

Then there was a set of ancient brethren of the angle from 
Edinburgh, who visited St. Ronan’s frequently in the spring 
and summer, a class of guests peculiarly acceptable to Meg, 
who permitted them more latitude in her premises than she 
was known to allow to any otherbody. ‘‘ They were,” she said, 
““pawky auld carles, that kend whilk side their bread was 
buttered upon. Ye never kend of ony o’ them ganging to the 
spring, as they behoved to ca’ the stinking well yonder.—Na, na 


ST. ROWAN’S WELL. ft 


—they were up in the morning—had their parritch, wi’ maybe 
a thimbleful of brandy, and then awa’ up into the hills, eat 
their bit cauld meat onthe heather, and came hame at e’en 
wi the creel full of caller trouts, and had them to their dinner, 
and their quiet cogue of ale, and their drap punch, and were 
set singing their catches and glees, as they ca’d them, till ten 
o'clock, and then to bed, wi’ God bless ye—and what for no?” 

Thirdly, we may commemorate some ranting blades, who 
also came from the metropolis to visit St. Ronan’s, attracted 
by the humors of Meg, and still more by the excellence of her 
liquor, and the cheapness of her reckonings. ‘These were 
members of the Helter Skelter Club, of the Wildfire Club, and 
other associations formed for the express purpose of getting rid 
of care and sobriety. Such dashers occasioned many a racket in 
Meg’s house, and many a dourasgue in Meg’s temper. Various 
were the arts of flattery and violence by which they endeavored 
to get supplies of liquor, when Meg’s conscience told her they 
had had too much already. Sometimes they failed, as when 
the croupier of the Helter Skelter got himself scalded with the 
mulled wine, in an unsuccessful attempt to coax this formidable 
virago by a salute; and the excellent president of the Wildfire 
received a broken head from the keys of the cellar, as he 
endeavored to possess himself of these emblems of authority. 
But little did these dauntless officials care for the exuberant 
frolics of Meg’s temper, which were to them only ‘ pretty 
Fanny’s way’—the dulees Amarylides ire. And Meg, on 
her part, though she. often called them “drunken ne’er-do- 
weels, and thorough-bred High Street blackguards,” allowed 
no other person to speak ill of them in her hearing. “ They 
were daft callants,’’ she said, ‘‘and that was all—when the 
drink was in the wit was out—ye could not put an auld 
head upon young shouthers—a young cowt will canter, be 
it up-hill or down—and what for no?” was her uniform 
conclusion. 

Nor must we omit, among Meg’s steady customers, ‘ faithful 
amongst the unfaithful found,” the copper-nosed_ sheriff-clerk 
of the county, who, when summoned by official duty to that 
district of the shire, warmed by recollections of her double- 
brewed ale, and her generous Antigua, always advertised that 
his ‘* Prieves,” or “‘ Comptis,” or whatever other business was 
in hand, were to proceed on such a day and _ hour, “ within the 
house of Margaret Dods, vintner in St. Ronan’s.”’ 

We have only further to notice Meg’s mode of conducting 
herself toward chance travelers, who, knowing nothing of 
nearer or more fashionable accommodations, or perhaps cor- 


12 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


sulting rather the state of their purse than of their taste, 
stumbled upon her house of entertainment. Her reception of 
these was as precarious as the hospitality of a savage nation to 
sailors shipwrecked on their coast. If the guests seemed to 
have made her mansion their free choice—or if she liked their 
appearance (and her taste was very capricious)—above ll, if 
they seemed pleased with what they got, and little disposed to 
criticise or give trouble, it was all very well. But if they had 
come to St. Ronan’s because the house at the Well was full— 
or if she disliked what the sailor calls the cut of their jib—or 
if, above all, they were critical about their accommodations, 
none so likely as Meg to give them what in her country is 
called a sfoan. In fact, she reckoned such personsa part of 
that ungenerous and ungrateful public, for whose sake she was 
keeping her house open at a dead loss, and who had left her, 
as it were, a victim to her patriotic zeal. 

Hence arose the different reports concerning the little inn 
of St. Ronan’s, which some favored travelers praised as the 
neatest and most comfortable old-fashioned house in Scotland, 
where you had good attendance, and good cheer, at moderate 
rates ; while others, less fortunate, could only talk of the dark- 
ness of the rooms, the homeliness of the old furniture, and the 
detestable bad humor of Meg Dods, the landlady. 

Reader, if you come from the more sunny side of the Tweed 
—or even if, being a Scot, you have had the advantage to be 
born within the last twenty-five years, you may be induced to 
think this portrait of Queen Elizabeth, in Dame Quickly’s 
piqued: hat and green apron, somewhat overcharged in the 
features. But I appeal to my own contemporaries, who have 
known wheel-road, bridle-way, and foot-path, for thirty years, 
whether they do not, every one of them, remember Meg Dods 
—-or somebody very like her. Indeed, so much is this the case, 
that, about the period I mention, I should have been afraid to 
have rambled from the Scottish metropolis, in almost any 
direction, lest I had lighted upon some one of the sisterhood of 
Dame Quickly, who might suspect me of having showed her up 
to the public in the character of Meg Dods. At present, though 
it is possible that some one or two of this peculiar class of wild- 
cats may still exist, their talons must be much impaired by age ; 
and I think they can do little more than sit, like the Giant 
Pope in the Pilgrim’s Progress, at the door of their unfrequented 
caverns, and grin at the pilgrims over whom they used formerly 
to execute their despotism. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 13 


CHAPTER SECOND. 
THE GUEST. 


Quis novus hic hospes? 
DIDO APUD VIRGILIUM. 


Ch’am-maid ! The Gemman in the front parlor ! 
Boors’s FREE TRANSLATION OF THE ENEID. 


IT was on a fine summet’s day that a solitary traveler rode 
under the old-fashioned archway, and alighted in the court- 
yard of Meg Dods’s inn, and delivered the bridle of his horse 
to the hump-backed postilion. ‘“‘ Bring my saddle-bags,” he 
said, * into the house—or stay—I am abler, I think, to carry 
them than you.” He then assisted the poor meagre groom to un- 
buckle the straps which secured the humble and now despised 
convenience, and meantime gave strict charges that his horse 
should be unbridled, and put into a clean and comfortable stall, 
the girth slacked, and a cloth cast over his loins ; but that the 
saddle should not be removed until he himself came to see him 
dressed. 

The companion of his travels seemed in the hostler’s eye 
deserving of his care, being a strong active horse, fit either for 
the road or field, but rather high in bone from a long journey, 
though from the state of his skin it appeared the utmost care 
had been bestowed to keep him in condition. While the 
groom obeyed the stranger’s directions, the latter, with the 
saddle-bags laid over his arm, entered the kitchen of the inn. 

Here he found the landlady herself in none of her most 
blessed humors. The cook-maid was abroad on some errand, 
and Meg, in a close review of the kitchen apparatus, was mak- 
ing the unpleasant discovery, that trenchers had been broken 
or cracked, pots and saucepans not so accurately scoured as 
her precise notions of cleanliness required, which, joined to 
other detections of a more petty description, stirred her bile in 
no small degree ; so that, while she disarranged and arranged 
the dk she maundered, in an undertone, complaints and 
menaces against the absent delinquent. 

The entrance of a guest did not induce her to suspend this 
agreeable amusement—she just glanced at him as he entered, 
then turned her back short on bim, and continued her labor 
and her soliloquy of lamentation. Truth is, she thought she 


4 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


recognized in the person of the stranger, one of those useful 
envoys of the commercial community, called by themselves and 
the waiters, Zravelers, par excellence—by others, Riders and 
Bagmen. Now against this class of customers Meg had pecu- 
liar prejudices ; because, there being no shops in the old village 
of St. Ronan’s, the said commercial emissaries, for the con- 
venience of their traffic, always took up their abode at the New 
Inn or Hotel, in the rising and rival village called St. Ronan’s 
Well, unless when some straggler, by chance or dire necessity, 
was compelled to lodge himself at the Auld Town, as the place 
of Meg’s residence began to be generally termed. She had, 
therefore, no sooner formed the hasty conclusion that the in- 
dividual in question belonged to this obnoxious class, than she 
resumed her former occupation, and continued to soliloquize 
and apostrophize her absent handmaidens, without even ap- 
pearing sensible of his presence. 

‘The huzzy Beenie—the jaud Eppie—the deil’s buckie of 
a, callant !—Another plate gane—they’ll break me out of house 
and ha’!”’ 

The traveler, who, with his saddle-bags rested on the back 
of a chair, had waited in silence for some note of welcome, 
now saw that ghost or no ghost he must speak first, if he in- 
tended to have any notice from his landlady. 

“You are my old acquaintance, Mistress Margaret Dods?” 
said the stranger. 

‘What for no ?—and wha are ye that speers?” said Meg, 
in the same breath, and began to rub a brass candlestick with 
more vehemence than before—the dry tone in which she spoke 
ind:cating plainly how little concern she took in the conver- 
sation. 

‘“‘ A traveler, good Mistress Dods, who comes to take up his 
lodgings here for a day or two.’ 

‘Tam thinking ye will be mista’en,” said Meg; ‘“ there’s 
nae room for bags or jaugs here—ye’ve mista’en your road, 
neighbor—ye maun e’en bundle yoursell a bit further down 
Gill.” 

““T see you have not got the letter I sent you, Mistress 
Dods?” said the guest. 

‘“‘ How should I, man?” answered the hostess ; “‘ they have 
ta’en awa the post-office from us—moved it down till the Spa- 
well yonder, as they ca’d.” 

‘“Why, that is but a step off,” observed the guest. 

‘Ye will get there the sooner,” answered the hostess. 

‘Nay, but,” said the guest, “if you had sent there for my 
letter, you would have learned »—— 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 18 


“I’m no wanting to learn onything at my years,” said Meg. 
“Tt folk have onything to write to me about, they may gie 
the letter to John Hislop, the carrier, that has used the road 
these forty years. As for the letters at the post-mistress’s, as 
they ca’ her down by yonder, they may bide in her shop- 
window, wi’ the snaps and bawbee rows, till Beltane, or I loose 
them. Ill never file my fingers with them. Post-mistress, 
indeed !—Upsetting cutty! I mind her fou weel when she 
dree’d penance for antenup ’”—~—- 

Laughing, but interrupting Meg in good time for the char- 
acter of the post-mistress, the stranger assured her he had sent 
his fishing-rod and trunk to her confidential friend the carrier, 

and that he sincerely hoped she would not turn an old acquaint- 
' ance out of her premises, especially as he believed he could 
not sleep in a bed within five miles of St. Ronan’s, if he knew 
that her Blue room was unengaged. 

‘“ Fishing-rod !—Auld acquaintance !—Blue room!” echoed 
Meg in some surprise; and, facing round upon the stranger, 
and examining him with some interest and curiosity,—‘ Ye'll 
be nae bag-man, then, after a’?” 

“No,” said the traveler ; ‘“‘ not since I have laid the saddle- 
bags out of my hand.” 

“Weel, I canna say but Iam glad of that—I canna bide 
their yanking way of knapping English at every word.—I have 
kent decent lads amang them too—-What for no ?—But that 
was when they stonped up here whiles, like other douce folk ; 
but since they gaed down, the hail flight of them, like a string 
of wild-geese, to the new-fashioned hottle yonder, I am told 
there are as mony hellicate tricks played in the traveler’s room, 
as they behove to call it, as if it were fou of drunken young 
lairds ” | 

“That is because they have not you to keep good order 
among them, Mistress Margaret.” 

‘‘ Ay, lad?” replied Meg; “ ye are a fine blaw-in-my-lug, to 
think to cuitle me off sae cleverly!” And, facing about upon 
her guest, she honored him with a more close and curious in- 
vestigation than she had at first designed to bestow upon him. 

All that she remarked was in her opinion rather favorable 
to the stranger. He was a well-made man, rather above than 
under the middle size, and apparently betwixt five-and-twenty 
and thirty years of age—for, although he might, at first glance, 
have passed for one who had attained the latter period, yet, on 
a nearer examination, it seemed as if the burning sun of a 
warmer climate than Scotland,.and perhaps some fatigue, both 
of body and mind, had imprinted the marks of care and of 


7% ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


manhood upon his countenance, without abiding the course of 
years. His eyes and teeth were excellent, and his other fea- 
tures, though they could scarce be termed handsome, expressed 
sense and acuteness; he bore, in his aspect, that ease and com- 
posure of manner, equally void of awkwardness and affectation, 
which is said emphatically to mark the gentleman; and, al- 
though neither the plainness of his dress, nor the total want of 
the usual attendance, allowed Meg to suppose him a wealthy 
man, she had little doubt that he was above the rank of her 
lodgers in general. Amidst these observations, and while she 
was in the course of making them, the good landlady was em- 
barrassed with various obscure recollections of having seen the 
object of them formerly; but when, or on what occasion, she 
was quite unable to call to remembrance. She was particularly 
puzzled by the cold and sarcastic expression of a countenance, 
which she could not by any means reconcile with the recollec- 
tions which it awakened. At length she said, with as much 
courtesy as she was capable of assuming,—“ Either I have seen 
you before, sir, or some ane very like ye ?—Ye ken the Blue 
room, too, and you a stranger in these parts ?” 

‘Not so much a stranger as you may suppose, Meg,” said 
the guest, assuming a more intimate tone, “ when I call myself 
Frank Tyrrel.” 

“ Tirl!” exclaimed Meg, with a tone of wonder—* It’s im- 
possible! You cannot be Francie Tirl, the wild callant that 
was fishing and bird-nesting here seven or eight years syne— 
it canna be—Francie was but a callant!” 

‘But add seven or eight years to that boy’s life, Meg,” said 
the stranger, gravely, “ and you will find you have the man who 
is now before you.” 

“Even sae!” said Meg, with a glance at the reflection of 
her own countenance in the copper coffee-pot, which she had 
scoured so brightly that it did the office of a mirror—“ Just 
e’en sae—but folk maun grow auld or die.—But, Mr. Tirl, for 
I maunna ca’ ye Francie now, I am thinking ” 

“Call me what you please, good dame,” said the stranger; 
“it has been so long since fF heard any one call me by a name 
that sounded like former kindness, that such a one is more 
agreeable to me than a lord’s title would be.” 

“Weel, then, Maister Francie—if it be no offence to you— 
I hope ye are no a Nabob?” 

“Not I, I can safely assure you, my old friend ;—but what 
an I were?” 

“‘Naething—only maybe I might bid ye gang further, and 
be waur served.—Nabobs indeed! the country’s’ plagued wi’ 


ST. RONAN’'S WELL. 147 


them. They have raised the price of eggs and pootry for 
twenty miles round—But what is my business ?—They use 
almaist a’ of them the Well down by—they need it ye ken for 
the clearing of their copper complexions, that need scouring as 
much as my saucepans, that naebody can clean but mysell.” 

“Well, my good friend,” said Tyrrel, “the upshot of all 
this is, I hope, that I am to stay and have dinner here?” 

“ What for no?” replied Mrs. Dods. 

“And that I am to have the Blue room for a night or two 
—perhaps longer?” 

‘I dinna ken that,’ said the dame.—‘* The Blue room is 
the best-—and they that get neist best are no ill aff in this 
warld.” 

“Arrange it as you will,” said the stranger, “I leave the 
whole matter to you, mistress.—Meantime, I will go see after 
my horse.” 

“The merciful man,” said Meg, when her guest had left. 
the kitchen, ‘‘is merciful to his beast—He had aye something 
about him by ordinar, that callant—But eh, sirs! there is a 
sair change on his cheek-haffit since I saw him last !—He sall 
no want a good dinner for auld lang syne, that I’se engage 
for.” 

Meg set about the necessary preparations with all the 
natural energy of her disposition, which was so much exerted 
upon her culinary cares, that her two maids, on their return to 
the house, escaped the bitter reprimand which she had been 
previously conning over, in reward for their alleged slatternly 
negligence. Nay, so far did she carry her complaisance, that 
when Tyrrel crossed the kitchen to recover his saddle-bags, she 
formally rebuked Eppie for an idle taupie, for not carrying the 
gentleman’s things to his room. 

‘“‘] thank you, mistress,” said Tyrrel; but I have some 
drawings and colors in these saddle-bags, and I always like to 
carry them myself.” 

“« Ay, and are you at the painting trade yet?” said Meg; 
“an unco slaister ye used to make with it lang syne.” 

“I cannot live without it,” said Tyrrel; and, taking the 
saddle-bags, was formally inducted by the maid into a snug 
apartment, where he soon had the satisfaction to behold a 
capital dish of minced collops, with vegetables, and a jug of 
excellent ale, placed on the table by the careful hand of Meg 
herself. He could do no less, in acknowledgment of the honor, 
than ask Meg for a bottle of the yellow seal, “ if there was any 
of that excellent claret still left.” 

“ Left ?—ay is there, walth of it,” said Meg ; “ I dinna gie 


13 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


it to everybody—Ah ! Maister Tirl, ye have not got ower your 
auld tricks !—I am sure, if ye are painting for your leeving, as 
you say, a little rum and water would come cheaper, and do 
ye as much good. But ye maun hae your ain way the day, 
nae doubt, if ye should never have it again.” 

Away trudged Meg, her keys clattering as she went, and, 
after much rummaging, returned with such a bottle of claret 
as no fashionable tavern could have produced, were it called 
for by a duke, or at a duke’s price ; and she seemed not alittle . 
gratified when her guest assured her that he had not yet for- 
gotten its excellent flavor. She retired after these acts of 
hospitality, and left the stranger to enjoy in quiet the excellent 
matters which she had placed before him. 

But there was that on Tyrrel’s mind which defied the en- 
livening power of good cheer and of wine, which only maketh 
man’s heart glad when that heart has no secret oppression to 
counteract its influence. Tyrrel found himself on a spot which 
he had loved in that delightful season, when youth and high 
spirits awaken all those flattering promises which are so ill kept 
to manhood. He drew his chair into the embrasure of the old- 
fashioned window, and throwing up the sash to enjoy the fresh 
air, suffered his thoughts to return to former days, while his 
eyes wandered over objects which they had not looked upon for 
several eventful years. He could behold beneath his eye the 
lower part of the decayed village, as its ruins peeped from the 
umbrageous shelter with which they were shrouded. Still 
lower down, upon the little holm which forms its churchyard, 
was seen the Kirk of St. Ronan’s ; and looking yet further, 
toward the junction of St. Ronan’s Burn with the river which 
traversed the larger dale or valley, he could see, whitened by 
the western sun, the rising houses, which were either newly 
finished, or in the act of being built, about the medicinal spring. 

‘Time changes all around us,” such was the course of 
natural though trite reflection, which flowed upon Tyrrel’s 
mind ; ‘‘ wherefore should loves and friendships have a longer 
date than our dwellings and our monuments ? ” As he indulged 
these sombre recollections, his officious landlady disturbed theit 
tenor by her entrance. 

‘‘ T was thinking to offer you a dish of tea, Moistes Francie, 
just for the sake of auld Jang syne, and I'll gar the quean 
Beenie bring it here, and mask it mysell.—But ye arena done 
with your wine yet ? ” 

“ T am indeed, Mrs. Dods,” answered Tyrrel ; * and -I beg 
you will remove the bottle.” 

* Remove the bottle, and the wine no half drunk out ! ” said 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 19 


Meg, displeasure lowering on her brow ; “ I hope there is nae 
fault to be found wi’ the wine, Maister Tirl ? ” 

To this answer, which was put in a tone resembling defiance, 
Tyrrel submissively replied, by declaring “ the claret not only 
unexeptionable, but excellent.” 

*¢ And what for dinna ye drink it, then?” said Meg, sharply ; 
“ folk should never ask for mair liquor than they can mak a 
gude use of. Maybe ye think we have the fashion of the table- 
dot, as they ca’ their new-fangled ordinary down-by yonder, 
where a’ the bits of venegar cruets are put awa into an awmry, 
as they tell me, and ilk ane wi’ the bit dribbles of syndings in 
it, and a paper about the neck o’t, to show which of the 
customers is aught it—there they stand like doctor’s drogs— 
and no an honest Scottish mutchkin will ane o’ their viols haud, 
granting it were at the fouest.” 

* Perhaps,” said Tyrrel, willing to indulge the spleen and 
prejudice of his old acquaintance, “‘ perhaps the wine is not so 
good as to make full measure desirable.”’ | 

‘Ye may say that, lad—and yet them that sell it might 
afford a gude penniworth, for they hae it for the making— 
maist feck of it ne’er saw France or Portugal. But as I was 
saying—this is no ane of their new-fangled places, where wine 
is put by for them that canna drink it—when the cork’s drawn 
the bottle maun be drunk out—and what for no ?—unless it be 
corkit.”’ . 

“T agree entirely, Meg,” said her guest; ‘‘but my ride 
to-day has somewhat heated me—and I think the dish of tea 
you promise me, will do me more good than to finish my 
bottle.” 

‘Na, then, the best I can do for you is to put it by, to be 
sauce for the wild duck the morn ; for I think ye said ye were 
to bide here for a day or twa.” 

“It is my very purpose, Meg, unquestionably, 
Tyrrel. 

“¢ Sae be it then,” said Mrs. Dods ; ‘and then the liquor’s no 
lost—it has been seldom sic claret as that has simmered in a 
saucepan, let me tell you that, neighbor ;—and I mind the day, 
when, headach or nae headach, ye wad hae been at the hinder- 
end of that bottle, and maybe anither, if ye could have gotten 
it wiled out of me. But then ye had your cousin to help you— 
Ah! he was a blithe bairn that Valentine Bulmer !—Ye were a 
canty callant too, Maister Francie, and muckle ado I| had to 
keep ye baith in order when ye were on the ramble. But ye 
were a thought doucer than Valentine—But oh, he was a bonny 
laddie !—w1’ een like diamonds, cheeks like roses, a head like 


”) 


replied 


20 SZ. RONAN’S WELL. 


a heathertap—he was the first ] ever saw wear a crap, as they 
ca’ it, but a’ body cheats the barber now—and he had a laugh 
that wad hae raised the dead !—What wi’ flyting on him, and 
what wi’ laughing at him, there was nae minding ony other 
body when that Valentine was in the house.—And how is your 
cousin, Valentine Bulmer, Maister Francie ?” 

Tyrrel looked down, and only answered with a sigh, 

‘“‘ Ay—and is it even sae?” said Meg; “and has the puir 
bairn been sae soon removed frae this fashious warld ?-—-Ay— 
ay——we maun a’ gang ae gate—crackit quart-stoups and geisen’d 
barrels—leaky quaighs are we a’, and canna keep in the liquor 
of iife—Ohon, sirs !—-Was the puir lad Bulmer frae Bu’mer 
Bay, where they land the Hollands, think ye, Maister Francie ? 
—They whiles rin in a pickle tea there too—I hope that is good 
that I have made you, Maister Francie? ” 

“ Excellent, my good dame,” said Tyrrel; but it was in a 
tone of voice which intimated that she had pressed upon a 
subject which awakened some unpleasant reflections. 

‘¢ And when did this puir lad die?” continued Meg, who 
was not without her share of Eve’s qualities, and wished to 
know something concerning what seemed to affect her guest so 
particularly ; but he disappointed her purpose, and at the same 
time awakened another train of sentiment in. her mind, by 
turning again to the window, and looking upon the distant 
buildings of St. Ronan’s Well. As if he had observed for the 
first time these new objects, he said to Mistress Dods, in an 
indifferent tone, “You have got some gay new neighbors 
yonder, mistress.” 

‘“‘ Neighbors,” said Meg, her wrath beginning to arise, as it 
always did upon any allusion to this sore subject— Ye may 
ca’ them neighbors if ye like—but the deil flee away wi’ the 
neighborhood for Meg Dods !” 

‘“‘T suppose,”’ said Tyrrel, as if he did not observe her dis- 
pleasure, ‘that yonder is the Fox Hotel they told me of ?” 

“The Fox!” said Meg; ‘‘ I am sure it is the fox that has 
carried off a’ my geese.—I might shut up house, Maister 
Francie, if it was the thing I lived by—me that has seen a’ our 
gentlefolks’ bairns, and gien them snaps and sugar-biscuit maist 
of them wi’ my ain hand! They wad hae seen my father’s 
roof-tree fa’ down and smoor me before they wad hae gien a 
boddle apiece to have propped it up—but they could a’ link 
out their fifty pounds ower head to bigg a hottle at the Well 
yonder. And muckle they hae made o’t—the bankrupt body, 
Sandie Lawson, hasna paid them a bawbee of four terms’ 
rent. ‘ 


SZ. RONAN’S WELL, 2" 


‘ Surely, mistress, I think if the Well became so famous for 
its cures, the least the gentlemen could have done was to make 
you the priestess.” i 

“Me priestess! I am nae Quaker, I wot, Maister Francie ; 
and I never heard of alewife that turned preacher, except 
Luckie Buchan in the West.* And if I were to preach, I think 
I have mair the spirit of a Scottishwoman, than to preach in 
the very room they hae been dancing in ilka night in the week, 
Saturday itsell not excepted, and that till twal o’clock at night. 
Na, na, Maister Francie; I leave the like o’ that to Mr. Simon 
Chatterly, as they ca’ the bit prelatical sprig of divinity from 
the town yonder, that plays at cards and dances six days in the 
week, and on the seventh reads the Common Prayer-book in 
the ball-room, with Tam Simson, the drunken barber, for his 
clerk.” 

“T think I have heard of Mr. Chatterly,” said Tyrrel. 

¢'VYe’ll be thinking o’ the sermon he has printed,” said the 
angry dame, “ where he compares their nasty puddle of a well 
yonder to the pool of Bethesda, like a foul-mouthed, fleeching, 
feather-headed fule as he is! He should hae ken’d that the 
place got a’its fame in the times of Black Popery ; and though 
they pat itin St. Ronan’s name, I’ll never believe for one that 
the honest man had ony hand in it; for I hae been tell’d by 
ane that suld ken, that he was nae Roman, but only a Cuddie, or 
Culdee, or such like.—But will ye not take anither dish of tea, 
Maister Francie? and a wee bit of the diet-loaf, raised wi’ my 
ain fresh butter, Maister Francie? and no wi’ greasy kitchen- 
fee, like the seedcake down at the confectioner’s yonder, that 
has as mony dead flees as carvey in it. Set him up for confec- 
tioner! Wi’ a penniworth of rye-meal, and anither of tryacle, 
and twa or three carvey seeds, I will make better confections 
than ever cam out of his oven!” 

“T have no doubt of that, Mrs. Dods,”’ said the guest ; ‘ and 
I only wish to know how these new comers were able to estab- 
lish themselves against a house of such good reputation and 
old standing as yours ?—It was the virtues of the mineral, I 
daresay; but how came the waters to recover a character all 
at once, mistress?” 

“‘T dinna ken, sir—they used to be thought good for naething, 
but here and there for a puir body’s bairn, that had gotten the 
cruells,f and could not afford a penniworth of salts. But my 


* The foundress of a sect called Buchanites; a species of Joanna 
Southcote, who long after death was expected to return and head her disci- 
ples on the road to Jerusalem. 

1 Lscrouelles, King’s Evil, 


va 


22 ST, RONAN’S WELLE. 


Leddy Penelope Penfeather, had fa’n ill, it’s like, as nae other 
body had ever fell ill, and sae she was to be cured some 
gate naebody was ever cured, which was naething mair than 
was reasonable-—and my leddy, ye ken, has wit at wull, and 
has a’ the wise folk out from Edinburgh at her house at 
Windywa’s yonder, which it is her leddyship’s will and pleasure 
to call Air Castle—and they have a’ their different turns, and 
some can clink verses, wi’ their tale, as weel as Rob Burns or 
Allan Ramsay—and some rin up hill and down dale, knapping 
the chucky stanes to pieces wi’ hammers, like sae mony road- 
makers run daft—they sae it is to see how the warld was made! 
—and some that play on all manner of ten-stringed instruments 
—and a wheen sketching souls, that ye may see perched like 
craws on every craig in the country, e’en working at your ain 
trade, Maister Francie ; forby men that had been in foreign 
parts, or said they had been there, whilk is a’ ane, ye ken, and 
maybe twa or three draggle-tailed misses, that wear my Leddy 
Penelope’s follies when she has dune wi’ them, as her queans 
of maids wear her second-hand claithes. So, after her leddy- 
_ ship’s happy recovery, as they ca’d it, down cam the haill tribe 
of wild geese, and settled by the Well, to dine thereout on the 
bare grund like a wheen tinklers; and they had sangs, and 
tunes, and healths, nae doubt, in praise of the fountain, as they 
ca’d the Well, and of Leddy Penelope Penfeather ; and, lastly, 
they behoved a’ to take a solemn bumper of the spring, which, 
as Iam tauld, made unco havoc among them, or they wan 
hame ; and this they ca’d Picknick, and a plague to them! 
_ And sae the jig was began after her leddyship’s pipe, and 
mony a mad measure has been danced sin’ syne; for down 
cam masons and murgeon-makers, and preachers and _ player- 
folk, and Episcopalians and Methodists, and fools and fiddlers, 
and Papists and piebakers, and doctors and drugsters; by the 
shop-folk, that sell trash and trumpery at three prices— and so 
up got the bonny new Well, and down fell the honest auld town 
of St. Ronan’s, where blithe decent folk had been heartsome 
eneugh for mony a day before ony o’ them were born, or ony 
sic vaporing fancies kittled in their cracked brains.” 

‘What said your landlord, the Laird of St. Ronan’s, to all 
this?” said Tyrrel. 

““Ts’t my landlord ye are asking after, Maister Francie ?— 
the Laird of St Ronan’s is nae landlord of mine, and I think 
ye might hae minded that.—Na, na, thanks be to Praise! 
Meg Dods is baith land/ord and landéeddy, 11] eneugh to keep 
the doors open as it is, let be facing Whitsunday and Martin- 
mas—an auld leather pock there is, Maister Francie, in ane of 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 23 


worthy Maister Bindloose the sheriff-clerk’s pigeon-holes, in his 
dowcot of a closet in the burgh ; and therein is baith charter, 
and sasine, and special service to boot ; and that will be chap: 
ter and verse, speer when ye list.” 

“JT had quite forgotten,” said Tyrrel, “that the inn was 
your own; though I remember you were a considerable landed 
proprietor.” 

‘Maybe I am,” replied Meg, ““maybe I am not; and if I 
be, what for no ?—But as to what the Laird, whose grandfather 
was my father’s landlord, said to the new doings yonder—he 
just jumped at the ready penny, like a cock at a grossart, and 
feu’d the bonny holm beside the Well, that they ca’d Saints- 
Well-holm, that was like the best land in his aught, to be 
carved, and biggit, and howkit up, just at the pleasure of Jock 
Ashler the stane-mason, that ca’s himsell an arkiteck—there’s 
nae living for new words in this new warld neither, and that is 
another vex to auld folk such as me—It’s a shame 0’ the young 
Laird to let his auld patrimony gang the gate it’s like to gang, 
and my heart is sair to see’t though it has but little cause to 
care what comes of him or his.” 

“Ts it the:same Mr. Mowbray,” said Mr. Tyrrel, “ who still 
holds the estate ?—the old gentleman, you know, whom I had 
some dispute with ”—— 

“About hunting moor-fowl upon the Spring-well-head 
muirs?”’ said Meg.» ‘Ah, lad! honest Maister Bindloose 
brqught you neatly off there—Na, it’s no that honest man, but 
his son John Mowbray—the tother has slept down-by in St. 
Ronan’s Kirk for these six or seven years.’ 

“Did he leave,” asked Tyrrel, with something of a falter- 
ing voice, “no other child than the present laird ?”’ 

“No other son,” said Meg; ‘ and there’s e’en es: un- 
less he could have left'a better ane.’ 

sare died, then,’ said Tyrrel, “ epee this son, without 
children ? ” 

“ By your leave, no,” said: Meg; “there is the lassie Miss 
Clara, that keeps house for the laird, if it can be ca’d keeping 
house, for he is almost aye down at the Well yonder—soa sma’ 
kitchen serves them at the Shaws.” 

‘Miss Clara will have‘but a dull time of it there during fet 
brother’s absence,” said the stranger. 

“ Hoot no !—he has her aften jinketing about, and back and 
forward, wi’ a’ the fine flichtering fools that come yonder ; and 
clapping palms wi’ them, and linking at their dances and 
daffing. * I wuss nae ill come o’t, but" it’s shame her father’s 
daughter should keep company wi’ a’ that scauff and raff of 


24 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


physic-students and writers’ prentices, and bagmani and siclike 
trash as are down at the Well yonder.” 

“You are severe, Mrs. Dods,” replied the guest. “ No 
doubt Miss Clara’s conduct deserves all sort of freedom.” 

“T am saying naething against her conduct,” said the 
dame; “and there’s nae ground to say onything that I ken of 
—But I wad hae like draw to like, Maister Francie. I never 
quarreled the ball that the gentry used to hae at my bit house 
a gude wheen years bygane—when they came, the auld folk in 
their coaches, wi’ lang-tailed black horses, and a wheen galliard 
gallants on their hunting horses, and mony a decent leddy be- 
hind her ain goodman, and mony a bonny smirking lassie on 
her pownie, and wha sae happy as they—And what for no? 
And then there was the farmers’ ball, wi’ the tight lads of yeo- 
men with the brank new blues and the buckskins—These were 
decent meetings—but then they were a’ ae man’s bairns that 
were at them, ilk ane kend ilk other—they danced farmers wi’ 
farmers’ daughters, at the tane, and gentles wi’ gentle blood at 
the tother, unless maybe when some of the gentlemen of the 
Killnakelty Club would gie mea round of the floor mysell, 
in the way of daffing and fun, and me no able to flyte on them 
for laughing—I am sure I never grudged these innocent pleas- 
ures, although it has cost me maybe a week’s redding up, ere 
I got the better of the confusion.” 

“But, dame,” said Tyrrel, ‘this ceremonial would be a 
little hard upon strangers like myself, for how were we to find 
partners in these family parties of yours ?” 

“Never you fash your thumb about that, Maister Francie,” 
returned the landlady, with a knowing. wink.—“ Every Jack 
will find a Jill, gang the world as it may—and, at the warst 
o’t, better hae some fashery in finding a partner for the night, 
than get yoked with ane that you may not be able to shake off 
the morn.” 

‘And does that sometimes happen?” asked the stranger. 

*“‘ Happen !—and it’s amang the Well folk that ye mean? ” 
exclaimed the hostess. “‘ Was it not the last season, as they ca’t, 
no further gane, than young Sir Bingo Binks, the English lad 
wi’ the red coat, that keeps a mail-coach, and drives it him- 
sell, gat cleekit with. Miss Rachel Bonnyrigg, the auld Leddy 
Loupengirth’s lang-legged daughter—and they danced sae lang 
thegither, and that there was mair said than suld hae been said 
about it—and the lad would fain have louped back, but the 
auld leddy held him to his tackle, and the Commissary Court 
and somebody else made her Leddy Binks in spite of Sir Bingo’s 
heart—and he has never daured take her to his friends in 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. as 


England, but they have just wintered and summered it at the 
Well ever since—and that is what the Well is good for!” 

“And does Clara,—I mean does Miss Mowbray, keep com- 
pany with such women as these?” said Tyrrel, with a tone of 
interest which he checked as he proceeded with the question. 

“*What can she do, puir thing?” said the dame. “She 
maun keep the company that her brother keeps, for she is 
clearly dependent.—But, speaking of that, I ken what 7 have 
to do, and that is no little, before it darkens. I have sat 
clavering with you ower lang, Maister Francie.” 

And away she marched with a resolved step, and soon the 
clear octaves of her voice were heard in shrill admonition to 
her hand-maidens. 

Tyrrel paused a moment in deep thought, then took his hat, 
paid a visit to the stable, where his horse saluted him with 
feathering ears, and that low amicable neigh, with which that 
animal acknowledges the approach of a loving and beloved 
friend. Having seen that the faithful creature was in every 
respect attended to, Tyrrel availed himself of the continued 
and lingering twilight, to visit the old castle, which, upon 
former occasions, had been his favorite evening walk. He 
remained while the light permitted, admiring the prospect 
we attempted to describe in the first chapter, and comparing, 
as in his former reverie, the faded hues of the glimmering land- 
scape to those of human life, when early youth and hope had 
ceased to gild them. 

A brisk walk to the inn, and a light supper on a Welsh 
rabbit and the dame’s home-brewed, were stimulants of livelier, 
at least more resigned thoughts—and the Blue bedroom, to the 
honor of which he had been promoted, received him a con- 
tented, if not a cheerful tenant. 


26 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


CHAPTER THIRD. 
ADMINISTRATION, 


There must be government in all society— 
Bees have their Queen, and stag herds have their leader; 
Rome had her Consuls, Athens had her Archons, 
And we, sir, have our Managing Committee. 
THE, ALBUM OF ST. RONAN’s. 


FRANCIS TYRREL was, in the course of the next day, formally 
settled in his old quarters, where he announced his pur- 
pose of remaining for several days. ‘The old-established carrier 
of the place brought his fishing-rod and traveling-trunk, with 
a letter to Meg, dated a week previously, desiring her to prepare 
to receive an old acquaintance. ‘This annunciation, though 
something of the latest, Meg received with great complacency, 
observing, it was a civil attention in Maister Tirl; and that 
John Hislop, though he was not just sae fast, was far surer 
than ony post of them a’, or express either. She also observed 
with satisfaction, that there was no gun-case along with her 
guest’s baggage; ‘for that weary gunning had brought him 
and her into trouble—the lairds had cried out upon’t, as if she 
made her house a howff for common fowlers and poachers ; and 
yet how could she hinder twa daft hempie callants from taking 
a start and an ower-loup?* They had been ower the neigh- 
bor’s ground they had leave on up to the march, and they 
werena just to ken meiths when the moorfowl got up.” 

In a day or two her guest fell into such quiet and solitary 
habits, that Meg, herself the most restless and bustling of hu- 
man creatures, began to be vexed, for want of the trouble which 
she expected to have had with him, experiencing, perhaps, the 
same sort of feeling from his extreme and passive indifference 
on all points, that a good horseman has for the over-patient 
steed, which he can scarce feel under him. His walks were 
devoted to the most solitary recesses among the neighboring 
woods and hills—his fishing-rod was often left behind him, or 
carried merely as an apology for sauntering slowly by the banks 
of some little brooklet—and his success so indifferent, that Meg 
said the piper of Peebles t would have caught a creelfu’ before 


* The usual expression for a slight encroachment on a neighbor’s property. 
| The said piper was famous at the mystery. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 24 


Maister Francie had made out the half-dozen: so that he was 
obliged, for peace’s sake, to vindicate his character, by killing a 
handsome salmon. 

Tyrrel’s painting, as Meg called it, went on equally slowly: 
He often, indeed, showed her the sketches which he brought 
from his walks, aad used to finish at home; but Meg held them 
very cheap. What signified, she said, a wheen bits of paper, 
wi’ black ‘and white scarts upon them, that he ca’d bushes, and 
trees, and craigs ?—Couldna he paint them wi’ green, and blue, 
and yellow, like the other folk? ‘Ye will never mak your 
bread that way, Maister Francie. Ye suld munt up a muckle 
square of canvas like Dick Tinto, and paint folk’s ainsells, 
that they like muckle better to see than ony craig in the haill 
water ; and I wadna muckle objeck even to some of the Wallers 
coming up and sitting to’ye. They waste their time waur, I 
wis—and, I warrant, ye might mak a guinea a-head of them. 
Dick made twa, but he was an auld used hand, and folk maun 
creep before they gang.” 

In answer to these remonstrances, Tyrrel assured her that 
the sketches with which he busied himself were held of such 
considerable value, that very often an artist in that line received 
much higher remuneration for these than for portraits or 
colored drawings. . He added, that they were often taken for 
the purpose of illustrating popular’ poems, and hinted as if he 
himself were engaged in some labor of that nature. 

Eagerly did Meg long to pour forth to Nelly Trotter, the 
fish-woman,—whose cart formed the only neutral channel of 
communication between the Auld Town and the Well, and who 
was in favor with Meg, because, as Nelly passed her door on 
her way to the Well, she always had the first choice of her fish, 
—the merits of her lodger as an artist. Luckie Dods had, in 
truth, been so much annoyed and bullied, as it were, with the 
report of clever persons, accomplished in all sorts of excellence, 
arriving day after day at the Hotel, that she was overjoyed 
in this fortunate opportunity to triumph over them in their 
own way; and it may be believed, that the excellences of her 
lodger lost nothing by being trumpeted through her mouth. 

‘“‘T maun hae the best of the cart, Nelly—if you and me can 
gree—for it is for ane of the best of painters. Your fine folk 
down yonder would gie their lugs to look at what he has been 
doing——he gets gowd in gowpins, for three downright scarts and 
three cross anes—And he is no an ungrateful loon, like Dick 
Tinto, that had nae sooner my good five-and-twenty shillings 
in his pocket, than he gaed down to birl it awa at their bonny 
bottle yonder, but a decent quiet lad, that kens when he is 


28 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


weel aff, and bides still at the auld howff—And what for no? 
—Tell them all this, and hear what they will say till’t.” 

“‘ Indeed, mistress, I can tell yet hat already, without stirring 
my shanks for the matter,” answered Nelly Trotter; “they will 
e’en say that ye are ae auld fule and me anither, that may hae 
some judgment in cock-bree or in scate-rumples, but maunna 
fash our beards about onything else.” 

‘Wad they say sae, the frontless villains ? and me been a 
housekeeper this thirty year!” exclaimed Meg ; “I wadna hae 
them say it to my face! But I am no speaking without warrant 
—for what an I had spoken to the minister, lass, and shown 
him ane of the loose scarts of paper that Maister Tirf leaves 
fleeing about his room ?—and what an he had said he had kend 
Lord Bidmore gie five guineas for the waur on’t ? and a’ the 
warld kens he was lang tutor in the Bidmore family.” 

“Troth,” answered her gossip, “I doubt if I was to tell a’ 
this they would hardly believe me, mistress ; for there are sae 
mony judges amang them, and they think sae muckle of them 
sells, and sae little of other folk, that unless ye were to send 
down the bit picture, Iam no thinking they will believe a word 
that I can tell them.” 

“No believe what an honest woman says—let abee to say 
twa o’ them?” exclaimed Meg; ‘‘ Oh the unbelieving genera- 
tion !—Weel, Nelly, since my back is up, ye sall tak down the 
picture, or sketching, or whatever it is (though I thought 
sketchers * were aye made of airn), and shame wi’ it the con- 
ceited crew that they are.—But see and bring’t back wi’ ye 
again, Nelly, for it’s a thing of value; and trustna it out 0’ 
your hand, ¢#at I charge you, for I lippen no muckle to their 
honesty.—And, Nelly, ye may tell them he has an illustrated 
poem—z//ustrated —mind the word, Nelly—that is to be stuck 
as fou of the like o’ that, as ever turkey was larded wi’ dabs o’ 
bacon,” 

Thus furnished with her credentials, and acting the part ofa 
herald betwixt two hostile countries, honest Nelly switched her 
little fish-cart downward to St. Ronan’s Well. 

In watering-places, as in other congregated assemblies of the 
human species, various kinds of government have been dictated 
by chance, caprice, or convenience ; but in almost all of them, 
some-sort of direction has been adopted, to prevent the conse- 
quences of anarchy. Sometimes the sole power has been vested 
in a Master of Ceremonies; but this, like other despotisms, has 
been of late unfashionable, and the powers of this great officer 


* Skates are called sketchers in Scotland. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 29 


have been much limited even at Bath, where Nash once ruled 
with undisputed supremacy. Committees of management, 
chosen from among the most steady guests, have been in general 
resorted to as a more liberal mode of sway, and to such was 
confided the administration of the infant republicof St. Ronan’s 
Well.. This little senate, it must be observed, had the more 
difficult task in discharging their high duties, that, like those of 
other republics, their subjects were divided into two jarring and 
contending factions, who every day ate, drank, danced, and 
made merry together, hating each other all the while with all 
the animosity of political party, endeavoring, by every art, to 
secure the adherence of each guest who arrived, and ridiculing 
the absurdities and follies of each other, with all the wit and 
bitterness of which they were masters. 

At the head of one of these parties was no less a personage 
than Lady Penelope Penfeather, to whom the establishment 
owed its fame, nay, its existence ; and whose influence could 
only have been balanced by that of the Lord of the Manor, Mr. 
Mowbray of St. Ronan’s, or, as he was called usually by the 
company who affected what Meg called knapping English, the 
Squire, who was leader of the opposite faction. 

The rank and fortune of the lady, her pretensions to beauty 
as well as talent (though the former was something faded), and 
the consequence which she arrogated to herself as a woman of 
fashion, drew round her painters, and poets, and philosophers, 
and men of science, and lecturers, and foreign adventurers, ée/ 
hoc genus omne. 

On the contrary, the Squire’s influence, as a man of family 
and property in the immediate neighborhood, who actually kept 
grayhounds and pointers and at least talked of hunters and of 
racers, ascertained him the support of the whole class of bucks, 
half and whole bred, from the three next counties; and if more 
inducements were wanting, he could grant his favorites the 
privilege of shooting over his moors, which is enough to turn 
the head of a young Scottishman at any time. Mr. Mowbray 
was of late especially supported in his pre-eminence by a close 
alliance with Sir Bingo Binks, asapient English Baronet, who, 
ashamed, as many thought, to return to his own country, had 
set him down at the Well of St. Ronan’s to enjoy the blessing 
which the Caledonian Hymen had so kindly forced on him, in 
the person of Miss Rachel Bonnyrigg. As this gentleman 
actually drove a regular-built mail-coach, not in any respect 
differing from that of his Majesty, only that it was more fre- 
quently overturned, his influence with a certain set was irresisti- 
ble, and the Squire of St. Ronan’s, having the better sense of 


30 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


the two, contrived to reap the full benefit of the consequence 
attached to his friendship. 

These two contending parties were so equally balanced, that 
the predominance of the influence of either was often determined 
by the course of the sun. Thus, in the morning and forenoon, 
when Lady Penelope led forth her herd to lawn and shady 
bower, whether to visit some ruined monument of’ ancient 
times, or eat their pic-nic luncheon, to spoil good paper with 
bad drawings, and good verses with repetition—in a word, 


“To rave, recite, and madden round the Jand,” 


her ladyship’s empire over the loungers seemed uncontroled and 
absolute, and all things were engaged in the fowsbillon, of which 
she formed the pivot and centre. Even the hunters, and 
shooters, and hard drinkers, were sometimes fain reluctantly to 
follow in her train, sulking, and quizzing , and flouting at her 
solemn festivals, besides encouragin ag the younger nymphs to 
giggle when they should have looked sentimental, ‘But after 
dinner the scene was changed, and her ladyship’s sweetest 
smiles, and softest invitations, were often insufficient to draw 
the neutral part of the company to the tea-room ; so that her 
society was reduced to those whose constitution or finances 
rendered early retirement from the dining-parlor a matter of 
convenience, together with the more devoted and zealous of her 
own immediate dependants and adherents. Even the faith of 
the latter was apt to be debauched. Her ladyship’s: poet- 
laureate, in whose behalf she was teasing each new-comer for 
subscriptions, got sufficiently independent to sing in her Jady- 
ship’s presence, at supper, a song of rather equivocal meaning ; 
and her chief painter, who was employed upon an: illustrated 
copy of the Loves of the Plants, was, at another time, seduced 
into such a state of pot-valor, that, upon her ladyship’s ad- 
ministering her usual dose of criticism upon his works, he not 
only bluntly disputed her judgment, but talked something of 
his right to be treated like a gentleman, 

These feuds were taken up by the Managing Committee, 
who interceded for the penitent offenders on the following 
morning, and obtained their re-establishment in Lady Penel- 
ope’s good graces upon moderate terms. Many other acts of 
moderating ‘authority they performed, much to the assuaging 
of faction, and the quiet of the Wellers; and so essential was 
their government to the prosperity of the place, that, without 
them, St. Ronan’s spring would probably have been speedily 
deserted. We must, therefore, give a brief sketch of that 


ST. RONAN?S WELL. 31 


potential Committee, which both factions, acting as if on a self: 
denying ordinance, had combined to invest with the reins of 
government, 

Each of its members appeared to be selected, as Fortunio, 
in the fairy-tale, chose his followers, for his peculiar gifts. 
First on the list stood the Man or MeEpIcINE, Dr. Quentin: 
Quackleben, who claimed right to regulate medical matters at 
the spring, upon the principle which, of old, assigned the prop- 
erty of a newly-discovered country to the bucanier who com- 
mitted the earliest piracy on its shores. The acknowledgment 
of the Doctor’s merit, as having been first to proclaim and 
vindicate the merits of these healing fountains, had occasioned 
his being universally installed First Physician and Man of 
Science, which last qualification he could apply to all purposes, 
from the boiling of an egg to the giving a lecture. He was, 
indeed, qualified, like many of his profession, to spread both 
the bane and antidote before a dyspeptic patient, being as 
knowing a gastronome as Dr. Redgill himself, or any other 
worthy physician who has written for the benefit of the cuzsine, 
from Dr. Moncrieff of Tippermalloch, to the late Dr. Hunter of 
York, and the present Dr. Kitchiner of London. But plural- 
ities are always invidious, and therefore the Doctor prudently 
relinquished the office of caterer and head-carver to the 
Man of Taste, who occupied regularly, and ex-officio, the 
head of the table, reserving to himself the occasional privi- 
lege of criticising, and a principal share in consuming, the 
good things which the common entertainment afforded. We 
have only to sum up this brief account of the learned Doctor, 
by informing the reader that he was a tall, lean, beetlebrowed 
man, with an ill-made black scratch-wig, that stared out on 
either side from his lantern jaws. He resided nine months 
out of the twelve at St. Ronan’s, and was supposed to make an 
indifferent good thing of it, especially as he played whist to 
admiration. 

First in place, though perhaps second to the Doctor in real 
authority, was Mr. Winterblossom ; a civil sort of person, who 
was nicely precise im his address, wore his hair cued, and 
dressed with powder, had knee-buckles set with Bristol stones, 
and a seal-ring as large as Sir John Falstaff’s. In his heyday 
he had a small estate, which he had spent like a gentleman, by 
mixing with the gay world. He was, in short, one of those 
respectable links that connect the coxcombs of the present day 
with those of the last age, and could compare, in his own ex 
perience, the follies of both. In the latter days, he had sense 


32 ST. RONAN’'S WELL. 


enough to extricate himself from his course of dissipation, 
though with impaired health and impoverished fortune. 

Mr. Winterblossom now lived upon a moderate annuity, and 
had discovered a way of reconciling his economy with much 
company and made dishes, by acting as perpetual president of 
the table-d’héte at the Well. Here he used to amuse the 
society by telling stories about Garrick, Foote, Bonnel Thorn- 
ton, and Lord Kelly, and delivering his opinions in matters of 
taste and vertu. An excellent carver, he knew how to help 
each guest to what was precisely his due; and never failed to 
reserve a proper slice as the reward of his own labors. To 
conclude, he was possessed of some taste in the fine arts, at 
least in painting and music, although it was rather of the 
technical kind, than that which warms the heart and elevates 
the feelings. There was indeed, about Winterblossom, nothing 
that was either warm or elevated. He was shrewd, selfish, and 
sensual; the last two of which qualities he screened from ob- 
servation, under a specious varnish of exterior complaisance. 
Therefore, in his professed and apparent anxiety to do the 
honors of the table, to the most punctilious point of good 
breeding, he never permitted the attendants upon the public 
taste to supply the wants of others, until all his own private 
comforts had been fully arranged and provided for. 

Mr. Winterblossom was also distinguished for possessing a 
few curious engravings, and other specimens of art, with the 
exhibition of which he occasionally beguiled a wet morning at 
the public room. ‘They were collected, “ ws e¢ modis,” said 
the Man of Law, another distinguished member of the Com- 
mittee, with a knowing cock of his eye to his next neighbor. 

Of this person little need be said. He was a large-boned, 
loud-voiced, red-faced old man, named Meiklewham ; a country 
writer, or attorney, who managed the matters of the Squire 
much to the profit of one or other,—if not of both. His nose 
projected from the front of his broad vulgar face, like the style 
of an-old sun-dial, twisted all of one side. He was as great a 
bully in his profession, as if it had been military instead of civil: 
conducted the whole technicalities concerning the cutting up 
the Saint’s-Wellhaugh, so much lamented by Dame Dods, into 
building-stances, and was on excellent terms with Doctor 
Quackleben, who always recommended him to make the wills 
of his patients. 

After the Man of Law comes, Captain Hector MacTurk, a 
Highland lieutenant on half-pay, and that of ancient standing ; 
one who preferred toddy of the strongest to wine, and in that 
fashion and cold drams finished about a bottle of whisky fer 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 33. 


diem, whenever he could come by it. He was called the Man 
of Peace, on the same principle which assigns to constables, 
Bow-street runners, and such like, who carry bludgeons to 
break folk’s heads, and are perpetually and officially employed 
in scenes of riot, the title of peace-officers—that is, because by 
his valor he compelled others to act with discretion. The 
Captain was the general referee in all those abortive quarrels, 
which at a place of this kind are so apt to occur at night, and 
to be quietly settled in the morning ; and occasionally adopted 
a quarrel himself, by way of taking down any guest who was 
unusually pugnacious. ‘This occupation procured Captain Mac- 
Turk a good deal of respect at the Well ; for he was precisely 
that sort of person who is ready to fight with any one—whom 
no one can find an apology for declining to fight with,—in 
fighting with whom considerable danger was incurred, for he 
was ever and anon showing that he could snuff a candle with a 
pistol-ball,—and lastly, through fighting with whom no éclat or 
credit could redound to the antagonist. He always wore a 
blue coat and red collar, had a supercilious taciturnity of 
manner, ate sliced leeks with his cheese, and resembled in 
complexion a Dutch red-herring. 

Still remains to be mentioned the Man of Religion—the 
gentle Mr. Simon Chatterly, who had strayed to St. Ronan’s 
Well from the banks of Cam or Isis, and who piqued himself, 
first on his Greek, and secondly, on his politeness to the ladies. 
During all the week days, as Dame Dods has already hinted, 
this reverend gentleman was the partner at the whist-table, or 
in the ball-room, to what maid or matron soever lacked a 
partner at either ; and on the Sundays, he read prayers in the 
public room to all who chose to attend. He was also a deviser 
of charades, and an unriddler of riddles ; he played a little on 
the flute, and was Mr. Winterblossom’s principal assistant in 
contriving those ingenious and romantic paths, by which, as by 
the zig-zags which connect military parallels, you were enabled 
to ascend to the top of the hill behind the hotel, which com- 
mands so beautiful a prospect, at exactly that precise angle of 
ascent, which entitles a gentleman to offer his arm, and a lady’ 
to accept it, with perfect propriety. 

“There was yet another member of this Select Committee, 
Mr. Michael Meredith, who might be termed the Man of Mirth, 
or, if you please, the Jack Pudding to the company, whose busi- 
ness it was to crack the best joke, and sing the best song—he 
could. Unluckily, however, this functionary was for the pres- 
ent obliged to absent himself from St. Ronan’s ; for, not recol- 
lecting that he did not actually wear the privileged motley of 


34 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


his profession, he had passed some jest upon Captain MacTurk, 
which cut so much to the quick, that Mr. Meredith was fain to 
go to goat-whey quarters, at some ten miles’ distance, and remain 
there in a sort of concealment, until the affair should be made 
up through the mediation of his brethren of the Committee. 

Such were the honest gentlemen who managed the affairs of 
this rising settlement, with as much impartiality as could be 
expected. They were not indeed without their own secret: 
predilections ; for the lawyer and the soldier privately inclined 
to the party of the Squire, while the person, Mr. Meredith, and 
Mr. Winterblossom, were more devoted to the interests of 
Lady Penelope ; so that Dr. Quackleben alone, who probably 
recollected that the gentlemen were as liable to stomach com- 
plaints, as the ladies to nervous disorders, seemed the only 
person who preserved in word and deed the most rigid neutral- 
ity. Nevertheless, the interests of the establishment being 
very: much at the heart of this honorable council, and each 
feeling his own profit, pleasure, or comfort, in some degree 
involved, they suffered not their private affections to interfere 
with their public duties, but acted, every one in his own sphere, 
for the public benefit of the whole community. 


CHAPTER FOURTH. 
THE INVITATION, 


Thus painters write their names at Co. 
PRIOR. 


THE clamor which attends the removal of dinner from a 
public room had subsided; the clatter of plates, and knives, 
and forks—the bustling tread of awkward boobies of country 
servants, kicking each other’s shins, and wrangling as they 
endeavor to rush out of the door three abreast—the clash of 
glasses and tumblers, borne to earth in the tumult—the shrieks 
of the landlady—the curses, not loud, but deep, of the land- 
lord—had all passed away; and those of the company who 
had servants had been accommodated by their respective 
Ganymedes, with such remnants of their respective bottles of 
wine, spirits, etc., as the said Ganymedes had not previously 
consumed, while the rest, broken in to such observance by Mr, 
Winterblossom, waited patiently until the worthy president’s 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 35 


ewn special and multifarious commissions had been executed 
by a tidy young woman and a lumpish lad, the regular attend- 
ants belonging to the house, but whom he permitted to wait 
on no one, till, as the hymn says, 


“ All his wants were well supplied.” 


* And, Dinah—my bottle of pale sherry, Dinah—place it on 
this side—there is a good girl ;—and, Toby—get my jug with 
the hot water—and let it be boiling—and don’t spill it on 
Lady Penelope, if you can help it, Toby.” 

““No—for her ladyship has been in hot water to-day al- 
ready,” said the Squire; a sarcasm to which Lady Penelope 
only replied with a look of contempt. 

“ And, Dinah, bring the sugar—the soft East India sugar, 
Dinah—and a lemon, Dinah, one of those which came fresh 
to-day—Go fetch it from the bar, ‘Toby—and don’t tumble down 
stairs, 1f you can help it—And, Dinah—stay, Dinah—the nut- 
meg, Dinah, and the ginger, my good girl—And, Dinah—put 
the cushion up behind my back—and the footstool to my foot, 
for my toe is something the worse of my walk with your lady- 
ship this morning to the top of Belvidere.” 

“ Her ladyship may call it what she pleases in common par- 
lance,” said the writer; “ but it must stand Munt-grunzie in the 
stamped paper, being so nominated in the ancient writs and 
evidents thereof.” 

* And, Dinah,” continued the president, “ lift up my hand- 
kerchief—and—a bit of biscuit, Dinah—and—and I do not 
think I want anything else—Look to the company, my good 
girl—I have the honor to drink the company’s. very good 
health—-Will your ladyship honor me by accepting a glass of 
negus ?—I learned to make negus from old Dartineuf’s son.—— 
He always used East India sugar, and added a tamarind—lIt 
improves the flavor infinitely—Dinah, see your father sends 
for some tamarinds—Dartineuf knew a good thing almost as 
well as his father—I met him at Bath in the year—let me see 
—Garrick was just taking leave, and that was in,” etc. etc. 
etc.—“ And what is this now, Dinah ?” he said, as she put into 
his hand a roll of paper.” 

“Something that Nelly Trotter” (Trotting Nelly, as the 
company called her) “brought from a sketching gentleman that 
lives at the woman’s” (thus bluntly did the upstart minx de- 
scribe the reverend Mrs. Margaret Dods) “at the Cleikum of 
Aultoun yonder”——-A name, by the way, which the inn had 
acquired from the use which the Saint upon the sign-post was 

making of his pastoral crook. 


36 ST. RONAN’ S WELL. 


“Indeed, Dinah?” said Mr. Winterblossom, gravely taking 
out his spectacles, and wiping them before he opened the roll 
of -paper; ‘‘some boy’s daubing, I suppose, whose pa and ma 
wish to get him into the Trustees’ School, and so are beating 
about for a little interest——But I am drained dry—I put three 
lads in last season; and if it had not been my particular in- 
terest with the secretary, who asks my opinion now and then, 
I could not have managed it. But giff gaff, say I—Eh! What, 
in the devil’s name, is this >—Here is both force and keeping— 
Who can this be, my lady ?—Do but see the sky-line—why, 
this is really a little bit—an exquisite little bit—Who the devil 
can it be? and how can he have stumbled upon the dog-hole 
in the old Town, and the snarling b I beg your ladyship ten 
thousand pardons—that kennels there ? ” 

‘* ] dare say, my lady,” said a little miss of fourteen, her 
eyes growing rounder and rounder, and her cheeks redder 
and redder, as she found herself speaking, and so many folks 
listening—‘“ Oh, la! I dare say it is the same. gentleman we 
met one day in the Low-wood walk, that looked like a gentle- 
man, and yet was none of the company, and that you said was a 
handsome man.’ 

‘I did not say handsome, Maria,” replied her ladyship; 
‘“‘ ladies never say men are handsome—lI only said he looked 
genteel and interesting.” 

‘“‘ And that, my lady,” said the young parson, bowing and 
smiling; “is, I will be judged by the company, the more flat- 
tering compliment of the two—We shall be jealous of this 
Unknown presently.” 

“‘ Nay, but,’ continued the sweetly communicative Maria, 
with some real and some .assumed simplicity, “* your ladyship 
forgets—for you said presently after, you were sure he was no 
gentleman, for he did not run after you with your, glove which 
you had dropped—and so I went back myself to find your lady- 
ship’s glove, and he never offered to help me, and I saw him 
closer than your ladyship did, and I am sure he is handsome, 
though he is not very civil.” 

‘You speak a little too much and too loud, miss,” said 
Lady Penelope, a natural blush reinforcing the mwance of rouge 
by which it was usually superseded. 

‘¢ What say you to that, Squire Mowbray ?” said the elegant 
Sir Bingo Binks. 

‘ A fair challenge to the field; Sir Bingo,” answered the 
Squire ; “ when a lady throws down the gauntlet, a gentleman 
may throw the handkerchief.” 

“ J have always the benefit of your best construction, Mr. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 37 


Mowbray,” said the lady, with dignity. ‘‘ I suppose Miss Maria 
has contrived this pretty story for your amusement. I can hardly 
answer to Mr. Digges, for bringing her into company where 
she receives encouragement to behave so,” 

‘““ Nay, nay, my lady,” said the president, ‘‘ you must let the 
jest pass by ; and since this is really such an admirable sketch, 
you must honor us with your opinion, whether the company 
can consistently with propriety make any advances to this 
man.” 

“In my opinion,” said her ladyship, the angry spot still 
glowing on her brow, “ there are enough of men among us 
already—I wish I could say gentlemen—As matters stand, I 
see little business /ad/zes can have at St. Ronan’s.” 

This was an intimation which always brought the Squire 
back to good breeding, which he could make use of when he 
pleased. He deprecated her ladyship’s displeasure, until she 
told him, in returning good-humor, that she really would not 
trust him unless he brought his sister to be security for his 
future politeness. 

“‘ Clara, my lady,” said Mowbray, “‘ is a little wilful; and I 
believe your ladyship must take the task of unharboring her 
into your own hands. What say you to a gypsy party up to my 
old shop ?—It is a bachelor’s house—you must not expect things 
in much order; but Clara would be honored ”’ 

The Lady Penelope eagerly accepted the proposal of some- 
thing like a party, and, quite reconciled with Mowbray, began 
to inquire whether she might bring the stranger artist with her, 
*‘ that is,” said her ladyship, looking to Dinah, “ if he be a 
gentleman.” 

Here Dinah interposed her assurance, “ that the gentleman 
at Meg Dod’s was quite and clean a gentleman, and an illus- 
trated poet besides.” 

“An illustrated poet, Dinah?” said Lady Penelope; ‘you 
must mean an illustrious poet.” 

‘I dare to say your ladyship is right,” said Dinah, drop: 
ping a courtesy. 

A joyous flutter of impatient anxiety was instantly excited 
through all the blue-stocking faction of the company, nor were 
the news totally indifferent to the rest of the community. The 
former belonged to that class, who, like the young Ascanius, 
are ever beating about in quest of a tawny lion, though they are 
much more successful in now and then starting a great bore ;* 


* The one or the other was equally zz vot/s to Ascanius,— 
** Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendre monte leonem.”’ 
Modern Trojans make a great distinction betwixt these two objects of chase. 


38 ST. RONANYS WELL. 


and the others, having left all their own ordinary affairs and 
subjects of interest at home, were glad to make a matter of 
importance of the most trivial occurrence. A mighty poet, said 
the former class—who could it possibly be ?—AlIl names were 
recited—all Britain scrutinized, from Highland hills to the 
Lakes of Cumberland—from Sydenham Common to St. James’s 
Place—even the banks of the Bosphorus were explored for some 
name which might rank under this distinguished epithet—And 
then, besides his illustrious poesy, to sketch so inimitably !— 
who could it be? And all the gapers, who had nothing of their 
own to suggest, answered with the antistrophe, “ Who could it 
be?” 

The Claret Club, which comprised the choicest and firmest 
adherents of Squire Mowbray and the Baronet—men who 
scorned that the reversion of one bottle of wine should furnish 
forth the feast of to-morrow, though caring naught about either 
of the fine arts in question, found out an interest of their own, 
which centred in the same individual. 

“Tsay, little Sir Bingo,” said the Squire, “this is the very 
fellow that we saw down at the Willow-slack on Saturday—he 
was tog’d gnostically enough, and cast twelve yards of line 
with one hand—the fly fell like a thistledown on the water.” 

“ Uich !” answered the party he addressed, in the accents of 
a dog choking in the collar. 

‘We saw him pull out the salmon yonder,” said Mowbray ; 
“you remember—clean fish—the tideticks on his gills—weighed, 
I dare say, a matter of eighteen pounds.” 

“Sixteen !”? replied Sir Bingo, in the same tone of strangu- 
lation. 

‘““ None of your rigs, Bing!” said his companion, “‘ nearer 
eighteen than sixteen !” 

‘“ Nearer sixteen, by 

“Will you go a dozen of blue on it to the company?” said 
the Squire. 

‘¢ No, d—me!”’ croaked the Baronet—“to our own set I 
will.” 

“Then I say done !”’ quoth the Squire. 

And “ Done!” responded the Knight ; and out came their 
red pocket-books. 

‘“* But who shall decide the bet ?” said the Squire. “ The 
genius himself I suppose ; they talk of asking him here, but I 
suppose he will scarce mind quizzes like them.” 

‘Write myself—John Mowbray,” said the Baronet. 

“ You, Baronet !—you write ! ’answered the Squire, “d—me - 
that cock won’t fight—you won’t,” 


{ 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 39 


* T will,” growled Sir Bingo, more articulately than usual. 

“ Why, you can’t!” said Mowbray. ‘You never wrote a 
line in your life, save those you were whipped for at school.” 

“ I can write—I will write!” said Sir Bingo. “ Two to 
one I will.” 

And there the affair rested, for the council of the company 
were in high consultation concerning the most proper manner of 
opening a communication with the mysterious stranger; and 
the voice of Mr. Winterblossom, whose tones, originally fine, 
age had reduced to falsetto, was calling upon the whole party 
for “ Order, order!” So that the bucks were obliged to lounge 
in silence, with both arms reclined on the table, and testifying, 
by coughs and yawns, their indifference to the matters in ques- 
tion, while the rest of the company debated upon them, as if they 
were matters of life and death. 

“* A visit from one of the gentlemen—Mr. Winterblossom, 
if he would take the trouble—in name of the company at large 
—would Lady Penelope Penfeather presumed to think, be a 
necessary preliminary to an invitation.” 

Mr. Winterblossom was “ quite of her ladyship’s opinion, and 
would gladly have been the personal representative of the com- 
pany at St. Ronan’s Well—but it was up hill—her ladyship 
knew his tyrant, the gout, was hovering upon the frontiers— 
there were other gentlemen, younger, and more worthy to fly at 
the lady’s command than an ancient Vulcan like him—there 
was the valiant Mars and the eloquent Mercury.” 

Thus speaking, he bowed to Captain MacTurkand the Rev. 
Mr. Simon Chatterly, and reclined on his chair, sipping his negus 
with the self-satisfied smile of one who, by a pretty speech, has 
rid himself of a troublesome commission. At the same time, by 
an act probably of mental absence, he put in his pocket the draw- 
ing, which, after circulating around the table, had returned 
back to the chair of the president, being the point from which 
it had set out. 

““ By Cot, madam.” said Captain MacTurk, ‘ I should be 
proud to obey your leddyship’s commands—but, by Cot, I 
never call first on any man that never called upon me at all, un- 
less it were to carry him a friend’s message, or such like.” 

“Twig the old connoisseur,” said the Squire to the Knight. 
—‘“‘ He is condidling the drawing.” 

“Go it, Johnnie Mowbray—pour it into him,” whispered 
Sir Bingo. 

“Thank ye for nothing, Sir Bingo,” said the Squire, in the 
same tone. ‘“Winterblossom is one of us—wzas one of us at 
least—and won’t stand the ironing. He has his Wogdens still, 


40 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


that were right things in his day, and can hit the hay-stack with 
the best of us—but stay, they are hallooing on the parson.” 

They were indeed busied on all hands to obtain Mr. Chat- 
terly’s consent to wait on the Genius unknown; but though he 
smiled and simpered, and was absolutely incapable of saying 
No, he begged leave, in all humility, to decline that commis- 
sion, ‘‘ The truth was,” he pleaded in his excuse, ‘that hav- 
ing one day walked to visit the old Castle of St. Ronan’s, and 
returning through the Auld Town, as it was popularly called, 
he had stopped at door of the Cvlezkum’’ (pronounced Anglicé, 
with the open diphthong), “in hopes to get a glass of syrup of 
capiliaire, or a draught of something cooling; and had in fact 
expressed his wishes, and was knocking pretty loudly, when a 
' sash window was thrown suddenly up, and ere he was aware 
what was about to happen, he was soused with a deluge of 
water (as he said), while the voice of an old hag from within 
assured him that if that did not cool him there was another 
biding him—an intimation which induced him to retreat in all 
haste from the repetition of this shower-bath.” 

All laughed at the account of the chaplain’s misfortune, the 
history of which seemed to be wrung from him reluctantly, by 
the necessity of assigning some weighty cause for declining to 
execute the ladies’ command. But the Squire and Baronet 
continued their mirth far longer than decorum allowed, flinging 
themselves back in their chairs, with their hands thrust into 
their side pockets, and their mouths expanded with unrestained 
enjoyment, until the sufferer, angry, disconcerted, and endeav- 
oring to look scornful, incurred another general burst of laugh- 
ter on all hands. 

When Mr. Winterblossom had succeeded in restoring some 
degree of order, he found the mishaps of the young divine 
proved as intimidating as ludicrous. Not one of the company 
chose togo Envoy Extraordinary to the dominions of Queen Meg, 
who might be suspected of paying little respect to the sanctity 
of an ambassador’s person. And what was worse, when it was 
resolved that a civil card from Mr. Winterblosom, in the name of 
the company, should be sent to the stranger instead ofa personal 
visit, Dinah informed them that she was sure no one about the 
house could be bribed to carry up a letter of the kind ; for, when 
such an event had taken place two summers since, Meg, who 
construed it into an attempt to seduce from her tenement the 
invited guest, had so handled a ploughboy who carried the letter, 
that he fled the country-side altogether, and never thought him- 
self safe till he was at a village ten miles off, where it was after- 


ST. RONAN’'S WELL. 41 


ward learned he enlisted with a recruiting party, choosing 
rather to face the French than to return within the sphere of 
Meg’s displeasure. 

Just while they were agitating this new difficulty, a prodigious 
clamor was heard without, which, to the first apprehensions of the 
company, seemed to be Meg, in all her terrors, come to antici- 
pate the proposed iuvasion. -Upon inquiry, however, it proved 
to be her gossip, Trotting Nelly, or Nelly Trotter, in the act of 
forcing her way up stairs, against the united strength of the 
whole household of the hotel, to reclaim Luckie Dods’s picture 
as she called it. ‘This made the connoisseur’s treasure tremble 
in his pocket, who, thrusting a half-crown into Toby’s hand, 
exhorted him to give it to her, and try his influence in keeping 
her back. ‘Toby, who knew Nelly’s nature, put the half-crown 
into his own pocket, and snatched up a gill-stoup of whisky 
from the sideboard. Thus armed, he boldly confronted the 
virago, and interposing a remora, which was able to check poor 
Nelly’s course in her most determined moods, not only suc- 
ceeded in averting the immediate storm which approached the 
company in general, and Mr. Winterblosom in_ particular, 
but brought the guests the satisfactory information, that Trot- 
ting Nelly had agreed, after she had slept out her nap in the 
barn, to convey their commands to the Unknown of Cleikum 
of Aultoun. 

Mr. Winterblossom, therefore, having authenticated his pro- 
ceedings by inserting in the Minutes of the Committee the au- 
thority which he had received, wrote his card in the best style of 
diplomacy, and sealed it with the seal of the Spa, which bore 
something like a nymph, seated beside what was designed to 
represent an urn. 

The rival factions, however, did not trust entirely to this 
official invitation. Lady Penelope was of opinion that they 
should find some way of letting the stranger—a man of talent 
unquestionably—understand that there were in the society to 
which he was invited spirits of a more select sort, who felt 
worthy to intrude themselves on his solitude. 

Accordingly her ladyship imposed upon the elegant Mr. Chat: 
terly the task of expressing the desire of the company tosee the 
unknown artist, in a neat occasional copy of verses. The poor 
gentleman’s muse, however, proved unpropitious, for he was 
able to proceed no further than two lines in half-an-hour, which, 
coupled with its variations, we insert from the blotted manu- 
script, as Dr. Johnson has printed the alterations in Pope’s ver- 
sion of the Iliad :-— 


42 ST. RONAN’'S WELL. 


1. Maids 2. Dames unily joining. 

The [nymphs] of St, Ronan’s |in purpose combining] 
I. Swain, 2, Man. 

To the [youth] who is great both in verse and designing, 
- ee eee ee ee ee eS dining, 


The eloquence of a prose billet was necessarily resorted ta 
in the absence of the heavenly muse, and the said billet was 
secretly intrusted to the care of Trotting Nelly. The same 
trusty emissary, when refreshed by her nap among the pease- 
straw, and about to harness her cart for her return to the 
sea-coast (in the course of which she was to pass the Aultoun), 
received another card, written, as he had threatened, by Sir 
Bingo Binks himself, who had given himself this trouble to 
secure the settlement of the bet ; conjecturing that a man with 
a fashionable exterior, who could throw twelve yards of line at 
a cast with such precision, might consider the invitation. of 
Winterblossom as that of an old twaddler, and care as little for 
the good graces of an affected blue-stocking and her céferie, 
whose conversation, in Sir Bingo’s mind, relished of nothing 
but of weak tea and bread and butter. Thus the happy Mr. 
Francis Tyrrel received, considerably to his surprise, no less 
than three invitations at once from the Well of St. Ronan’s. 


CHAPTER. FIFTH. 


EPISTOLARY ELOQUENCE, 


But how can I answer, since first I must read thee ? 
PRIOR, 


Destrous of authenticating our more important facts, by as 
many original documents as possible, we have, after much re- 
search, enabled ourselves to present our readers with the follow- 
ing accurate transcripts of the notes intrusted to the care of 
Trotting Nelly. The first ran thus :— 


‘Mr. Winterblossom [of Silverhed] has the commands of 
Lady Penelope Penfeather, Sir Bingo and Lady Binks, Mr. and 
Miss Mowbray [of St. Ronan’s] and the rest of the company at 
the Hotel and Tontine Inn of St. Ronan’s Well, to express their 
hope that the gentleman lodged at the Cleikum Inn, Old Town 
of St. Ronan’s, will favor them with his company at the 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 43 


Ordinary, as early and as often as may suit his convenience. 
The Company think it necessary to send this intimation because 
according to the RuLEs of the place, the Ordinary can only be 
attended by such gentlemen and ladies as lodge at St. Ronan’s 
Weil ; but they are happy to make a distinction in favor of a 
gentleman so distinguished for success in the fine arts as Mr. 
, residing at Cleikum. If Mr. —— should be 
inclined, upon becoming further acquainted with the Company 
and RuLes of the place, to remove his residence to the Well, 
Mr. Winterblossom, though he would not be understood. to 
commit himself by a positive assurance to that effect, is inclined 
to hope that an arrangement might be made, notwithstanding 
the extreme crowd of the season, to accommodate Mr. 
—— at the lodging-house, called Lilliput Hall. It will much 
conduce to facilitate this negotiation, if Mr. ——-—— would 
have the goodness to send an exact note of his stature,as Captain 
Rannletree seems disposed to resign the folding-bed at Lilliput 
Hall, on account of his finding it rather deficient inlength., Mr, 
Winterblossom begs further to assure Mr. —— —— of the 
esteem in which he holds his genius, and of his high personal 
consideration. 


For , Esquire, Cleikum Inn, 


Old Town of St. Ronan’s. 


‘The Public Rooms, fTotel, and Tontine, 
St. Ronan’s Well, etc. etc. etc.” 


The above card was written (we love to be precise in mat- 
ters concerning orthography) in a neat, round, clerk-like hand, - 
which, like Mr. Winterblossom’s character, in many particulars 
was most accurate and commonplace, though betraying an af- 
fectation both of flourish and of facility. 

The next billet was a contrast to the diplomatic gravity and 
accuracy of Mr. Winterblossom’s official communication, and 
ran thus, the young divine’s academic jests and classical flow- 
ers of eloquence being mingled with some wild flowers from the 
teeming fancy of Lady Penelope. 


“A choir of Dryads and Naiads, assembled at the healing 
spring of St. Ronan’s, have learned with surprise that a youth, 
gifted by Apollo, when the Deity was prodigal, with two of his 
most esteemed endowments, wanders at will among their do- 
mains, frequenting grove and river, without once dreaming of 
paying homage to its tutelary deities. He is, therefore, sum- 
moned to their presence, and prompt obedience will ensure him 


44 SZ. RONAN’S WELL. 


forgiveness; but in case of contumacy, let him beware how he 
again essays either the lyre on the pallet. 

“ Postscript. ‘Yhe adorable Penelope, long enrolled among 
the Goddesses for her beauty and virtues, gives Nectar and 
Ambrosia, which mortals call tea and cake, at the Public Rooms, 
near the Sacred Spring, on Thursday evening, at eight o’clock, 
when the Muses never fail to attend. ‘The stranger’s presence 
is requested to participate in the delights of the evening. 

“ Second postscript. A shepherd, ambitiously aiming at more 
accommodation than his narrow cot affords, leaves it in a day 
or two. | 


‘ Assuredly the thing is to be hired.’ 
As You LIKE IT. 


“ Postscript third. Our Iris, whom mortals know as Trotting 
Nelly in her tartan cloak, will bring us the stranger’s answer to 
our celestial summons.” 

This letter was written in a delicate Italian hand, garnished 
with fine hair-strokes and dashes, which were sometimes so 
dexterously thrown off as to represent lyres, pallets, vases, 
and other appropriate decorations, suited to the tenor of the 
contents. 

The third epistle was a complete contrast to the other two. 
It was written in a coarse, irregular, schoolboy half-text, which, 
however, seemed to have cost the writer as much pains as if it 
had been a specimen of the most exquisite caligraphy. And 
these were the contents :— 


‘Sur—Jack Moobray has betted with me that the samon 
you killed on Saturday last weyd ni to eiteen pounds,—I say 
nyer sixteen.—So you being a spurtsman, ’tis refer’d.—So hope 
you will come or send me’t; do not doubt you will be on honor. 
The bet is a dozen of claret, to be drank at the hotel by our 
own sett on Monday next; and we beg you will make one ; and 
Moobray hopes you will come down.—Being, sir, your most 
humbel servant,—Bingo Binks Baronet, and of Block-hall. 

“* Postscript. Wave sent some loops of Indian gout, also some 
black hakkels of my groom’s dressing ; hope they will prove 
killing, as suiting river and season.” 


No answer was received to any of these invitations for more 
than three days; which, while it secretly rather added to than 
diminished the curiosity of the Wellers concerning the Unknown, 
occasioned much railling in public against him, as ill- mannered 
and rude 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. | 46 


Meantime, Francis Tyrrel, to his great surprise, began to 
find, like the philosophers, that he was never less alone than 
when alone. In the most silent and sequestered walks, to 
which the present state of his mind induced him to betake him- 
self he was sure to find some strollers from the Well, to whom 
he had become the object of so much solicitous interest. Quite 
innocent of the knowledge that he himself possessed the attrac- 
tion which occasioned his meeting them so frequently, he began 
to doubt whether the Lady Penelope and her maidens—Mr. 
Winterblossom and his gray pony—the parson and his short 
black coat and raven-gray pantaloons—were not either actually 
polygraphic copies of the same individuals, or possessed of a 
celerity of motion resembling omnipresence and ubiquity; for 
nowhere could he go without meeting them, and that oftener than 
once a-day, in the course of his walks. Sometimes the presence of 
the sweet Lycoris was intimated by the sweet prattle in an 
adjacent shade; sometimes, when Tyrrel thought himself most 
solitary, the parson’s flute was heard snoring forth Gramachree 
Molly ; and if he betook himself to the river, he was pretty 
sure to find his sport watched by Sir Bingo or some of his 
friends. 

The efforts which Tyrrel made to escape from this persecu- 
tion, and the impatience of it which his manner indicated, pro- 
cured him among the Wellers the name of the A/zsanthrope ; 
and once distinguished as an object of curiosity, he was the 
person most attended to, who could at the Ordinary of the day 
give the most accurate account of where the Misanthrope had 
been, and how occupied in the course of the morning. And sa 
far was Tyrrel’s shyness from diminishing the desire of the 
Wellers for his society, that the latter feeling increased with the 
difficulty of gratification,—as the angler feels the most peculiar 
interest when throwing his fly for the most cunning and con- 
siderate trout in the pool. 

In short, such was the interest which the excited imagina- 
tions of the company took in the Misanthrope, that, notwith- 
standing the unamiable qualities which the word expresses, 
there was only one of the society who did not desire to see the 
specimen at their rooms, for the purpose of examining him 
closely and at leisure ; and the ladies were particularly desirous 
to inquire whether he was actually a Misanthrope? Whether 
he had been always a Misanthrope? What had induced him 
to become a Misanthrope? And whether there were no means 
of inducing him to cease to bé a Misanthrope? 

One individual only, as we have said, neither desired to see 
nor hear more of the supposed Timon of Cleikum, and that was 


46 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s, ‘Through the medium of ‘that 
venerable character John Pirner, professed weaver and: prac- 
tical black-fisher in the Aultoun of St. Ronan’s, who usually 
attended Tyrrel, to show him the casts of the river, carry his 
bag, and so forth, the Squire had ascertained that the judgment 
of Sir Bingoregarding the disputed weight of the fish was more 
correct than his-own.. This inferred an immediate loss of 
honor, besides. the payment of a heavy bill. And the conse- 
quences might be yet more serious; nothing short of the 
emancipation of Sir Bingo, who had hitherto been Mowbray’s 
convenient shadow and adherent, but who, if triumphant, con- 
fiding in his superiority of judgment upon so important a point, 
might either cut him altogether, or expect that, in future, the 
Squire, who had long seemed the planet of their set, should be 
content to roll around himself, Sir Bingo, in the capacity of a 
satellite. 

The Squire, therefore, devoutly hoped that Tyrrel’s restive 
disposition might continue, to prevent the decision of the bet, 
while, at the same time, he nourished a very reasonable degree 
of dislike to that stranger, who had been the indirect occasion 
of the unpleasant predicament in which he found himself, by 
not catching a salmon weighing a pound heavier. He, there- 
fore, openly censured the meanness of those who proposed 
taking further notice of Tyrrel, and referred to the unanswered 
letters, as a piece of impertinence which announced him to be 
no gentleman. 

But though appearances were against him, and though he 
was in truth naturally inclined to solitude, and averse to the 
affectation and bustle of such a society, that part of Tyrrel’s 
behavior which indicated ill-breeding was easily accounted for, 
by his never having received the letters which required an 
answer. ‘Trotting Nelly, whether unwilling to face her gossip, 
Meg Dods, without bringing back the drawing, or whether 
oblivious through the influence of the double dram with which 
she had been indulged at the Well, jumbled off with her cart 
to her beloved village of Scate-raw, from which she transmitted 
the letters by the first bare-legged gillie who traveled toward 
Aultoun of St. Ronan’s; so that at last, but after a long delay, 
they reached the Cleikum Inn andthe hands of Mr, Tyrrel. 

The arrival of these documents explained some part of the 
oddity of behavior which had surprised him in his neighbors 
of the Well; and as he saw they had got somehow an idea of 
his being a lion extraordinary, and was sensible that such is 
a character equally ridiculous, and difficult to support, he 
hastened to write to Mr. Winterblossom a card in the style of 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 47 


ordinary mortals. In this he stated the delay occasioned by 
miscarriage of the letter, and his regret on that account; ex- 
pressed his intention of dining with the company at the Well 
on the succeeding day, while he regretted that other circum- 
stances, as well as the state of his health and spirits, would 
permit him this honor very unfrequently during his stay in 
the country, and begged no trouble might be taken about his 
accommodation at the Well, as he was perfectly satisfied with 
his present residence. A separate note to Sir Bingo said he 
was happy he could verify the weight of the fish, which he had 
noted in his diary (‘‘ D—n the fellow, does he keep a diary? ” 
said the Baronet), and though the result could only be partic- 
ularly agreeable to one party, he should wish both winner and 
loser mirth with their wine; he was sorry he was unable to 
promise himself the pleasure of participating in either. En- 
closed wasa signed note of the weight of the fish. Armed 
with this, Sir Bingo claimed his wine—triumphed in his judg- 
ment—swore louder and more articulately than ever he was 
known to utter any previous sounds, that this Tyrrel was 
a devilish honest fellow, and he trusted to be better acquainted 
with him; while the crest-fallen Squire, privately cursing the 
stranger by all his gods, had no mode of silencing his companion 
but by allowing his loss, and fixing a day for discussing the bet. 

In the public rooms the company examined even microsco- 
pically the response of the stranger to Mr. Winterblossom. 
straining their ingenuity to discover, in the most ordinary 
expressions, a deeper and esoteric meaning, expressive of some- 
thing mysterious, and not meant to meet the eye. Mr. Meikle- 
wham, the writer, dwelt on the word cercumstances, which he 
read with peculiar emphasis. 

“Ah, poor lad !” he concluded, ‘‘ I doubt he sits cheaper at 
Meg Dort’s chimney-corner than he could do with the present 
company.” 

Docter Quackleben, in the manner of a clergyman selecting 
a word from his text,as that which is particularly insisted 
upon, repeated in an under tone, the words, State of health ? 
—umph—state of health >—Nothing acute—no one has_ been 
sent for—must be chronic—tending to gout, perhaps.—Or his 
shyness to society—light wild eye—irregular step—stariing 
when met suddenly by a stranger, and turning abruptly and 
angrily away—Pray,Mr. Winterblossom, let me have an_ order 
to look over the file of newspapers—it’s very troublesome that 
restriction about consulting them.” 

“You know it is a necessary one, Doctor,” said the president ; 
“because so few of the good company read anything else, that 


48 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


the old newspapers would have been worn to pieces long 
since.” 

“ Well, well, let me have the order,” said the Doctor; ‘I 
remember something of a gentleman run away from his friends 
—I must look at the description.—I believe I have a strait- 
jacket somewhere about the Dispensary.” 

While this suggestion appalled the male part of the company 
who did not much relish the approaching’ dinner in company 
with a gentleman whose situation seemed so precarious, some of 
the younger Misses whispered to each other—‘‘Ah poor fellow ! 
—and if it be as the Doctor supposes, my lady, who knows 
what the cause of his illness may have been ?—His sfzerets he 
complains of—ah, poor man.” 

And thus, by the ingenious commentaries of the company at 
the Well, on as plain a note as ever covered the eighth part of 
a sheet of foolscap, the writer was deprived of his property, his 
reason, and his heart, “all or either or one or other of them,” 
as is briefly and distinctly expressed in the law phrase. 

In short so much was said fro and con, so many ideas started 
and theories maintained, concerning the disposition and charac- 
ter of the Misanthrope, that, when the company assembled at the 
usual time, before proceeding to dinner, they doubted, as it 
seemed, whether the expected addition to their society was 
to enter the room on his hands or his feet; and when “ Mr. 
Tyrrel’? was announced by Toby, at the top of his voice, the 
gentleman who entered the room had so very little to distinguish 
him from others, that there was a momentary disappointment. 
The ladies, in particular, began to doubt whether the compound 
of talent, misanthropy, madness, and mental sensibility, which 
they had pictured to themselves, actually was the same with 
the genteel, and even fashionable-looking man whom they saw 
before them ; who, though in a morning dress, which the distance 
of his residence and the freedom of the place made excusable, 
had, even in the minute points of his exterior, none of the negli- 
gence, or wildness, which might be supposed to attach to the 
vestments of a misanthropic recluse, whether sane or insane. 
As he paid his compliments round the circle, the scales seemed 
to fall from the eyes of those he spoke to ; and they saw with 
surprise that the exaggerations had existed entirely in their 
own preconceptions, and that, whatever the fortunes or rank in 
life of Mr. Tyrrel might be, his manners, without being showy, 
were gentleman-like and pleasing. He returned his thanks to 
Mr.Winterblossom in a manner which made that gentleman 
recall his best breeding to answer the stranger’s address in kind. 
He then escaped from the awkwardness of remaining the sole 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 49 


object of attention, by gliding gradually among the company,— 
not like an owl, which seeks to hide itself in a thicket, or an 
awkward and retired man, shrinking from the society into which 
he is compelled, but with the air of one who could mauntain 
with ease his part in a higher circle. His address to Lady 
Penelope was adapted to the romantic tone of Mr Chatterly’s 
epistle, to which it was necessary to allude. He was afraid, he 
said, he must complain to Juno of the neglect of Iris, for her 
irregularity in delivery of a certain ethereal command, which he 
had not dared to answer otherwise than by mute obedience— 
unless, indeed, as the import of the letter seemed to infer, the 
invitation was designed for some more gifted individual than he 
to whom chance had assigned it. 

Lady Penelope by her lips, and many of the young ladies 
with their eyes, assured him there was no mistake in the 
matter; that he was really the gifted person whom the nymphs 
had summoned to their presence, and that they were well 
acquainted with his talents as a poet anda painter. ‘Tyrrel 
disclaimed, with earnestness and gravity, the charge of poetry, 
and professed, that, far from attempting the art itself, he “‘ read 
with reluctance all but the productions of the very first-rate 
poets, and some of these—he was almost afraid to say—he 
should have liked better in humble prose.” 

‘You have now only to disown your skill as an artist,” said 
Lady Penelope, ‘“‘and we must consider Mr. Tyrrel as the 
falsest and most deceitful of his sex, who has a mind to deprive 
us of the opportunity of benefiting by the productions of his 
unparalleled endowments. I assure you I shall put my young 
friends on their guard. Such dissimulation cannot be without 
its object.” 

“And I,” said Mr. Winterblossom, ‘‘can produce a piece of 
real evidence against the culprit.” 

So saying, he unrolled the sketch which he had filched from 
Trotting Nelly, and which he had pared and pasted (arts in 
which he was eminent), so as to take out its creases, repair its 
breaches, and vamp it as well as my old friend Mrs. Weir could 
have repaired the damages of time on a folio Shakespeare. 

“ The vara corpus delicti,’ said the writer, grinning and 
rubbing his hands. 

“Tf you are so good as to call such scratches drawings,” said 
Tyrrel, “ I must stand so far confessed. I used to do them for 
my own amusement ; but since my landlady, Mrs. Dods, has of 
late discovered that I gain my livelihood by them, why should 
I disown it?” 

This avowal, made without the least appearance either of 


BO ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


shame or refenue, seemed to have a striking effect on the whole 
society. The president’s trembling hand stole the sketch back 
to the portfolio, afraid doubtless it might be claimed in form, 
or else compensation expected by the artist. Lady Penelope 
was’ disconcerted, like an awkward horse when it changes the 
leading foot in galloping. She had to recede from the respect- 
ful and easy footing on which he had contrived to place him- 
self, to one which might express patronage on her own part, 
and dependence on Tyrrel’s; and this could not be done in a 
moment. 

The Man of Law murmured, “‘ Circumstances—circumstances 
—I thought'so!”’ 

Sir Bingo whispered to his friend the Squire, ‘ Run out— 
blown up——off the course—pity—d—d pretty fellow he has 
been!” 

“ A raff from the: beginning!” whispered Mowhrayyrist I 
never thought him anything else.” 

“Tl hold ye a pony of that, my dear, and I’ll ask him.” 

“ Done, for a pony provided you ask him in ten minutes,” 
said the Squire; ‘‘ but you dare not, Bingie—he has a d—d 
cross game look, with all that civil chaff of his.” 

ef Done, ” said Sir Bingo, but in a less contain tone than 
before, and with a determination to proceed with some caution 
in the matter.— I have got a rouleau above, and Winter- 
blossom shall hold stakes.” 

‘“‘T have no: rouleau,” said the Squire ; “ but JI’ll fly.a cheque 
on Meiklewham.” | 

‘““ See it be better than your last,” said Sir Bingo, “for I 
won’t be skylarked <, my boy, you are had.” 

‘Not till the bet’s won; and I shall see yon walking dandy 
break your head, Bingie, before that,” ‘answered Mowbray. 
“Best speak to the Captain beforehand—it is a hellish scrape 
you are running into—l’]] let you off yet, Bingie, for a guinea 
forfeit.—See, I am just going to start the tattler.” 

“Start, and be d—d!”’ said Sir Bingo. ‘‘ You are gotten, I 
assure you o’ that, Jack. And with a bow and a shuffle, he 
went up and introduced himself to the stranger as Sir. Bingo 
Binks. 

‘“‘ Fad—honor—write—-sir,”’ were the only sounds which his 
throat, or rather his cravat, seemed to send forth. 

‘““Confound the booby!” thought Mowbray; “he will get 
out of leading strings, if he goes on at this rate; and. doubly 
confounded be this cursed tramper, who; the Lord knows why, 
has come hither from the Lord knows where, to drive the pigs 
through my game,” 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, et 


In the meantime, while his friend stood with his stop-watch 
in his hand, with a visage lengthened under the influence of 
these reflections, Sir Bingo, with an instinctive tact, which 
self-preservation seemed to dictate to'a brain neither the most 
delicate nor subtle in the world, premised his inquiry with 
some general remarks on fishing and field-sports. With all 
these he found Tyrrel more than passably acquainted. Of 
fishing and shooting, particularly, he spoke with something like 
enthusiasm; so that Sir Bingo began to hold hira in consider- 
able respect, and to assure himself that he could not be, or at 
least could not originally have been bred, the itinerant artist 
which he now gave himself out—and this, with the fast lapse 
of the time, induced him thus to address Tyrrel.—“I say, Mr. 
Tyrrel—why, you have been one of us—I say”- 

“Tf you mean a sportsman, Sir Bingo—I have been, and 
am a pretty keen one still,” replied Tyrrel. 

“Why, then, you did not always do them sort of things?” 

“What sort of things do you mean, Sir Bingo?’ ” said 
Tyrrel. ‘‘T have,not the pleasure of understanding you.” 

* Why, I mean them sketches,” said Sir Bingo. “T’ll give 
you a handsome order for them, if you tell me. I will, on my 
honor.” 

“* Does it concern you particularly, Sir Bingo, to know any- 
thing of my affairs?” said Tyrrel. 

““ No—certainly—not immediately,” answered Sir Bingo, 
with some hesitation, for he liked not the dry tone in which 
Tyrrel’s answers were returned half so well as a bumper of dry 
sherry ; “ only I said you were a d—d gnostic fellow, and I laid 
a bet you have not been always professional—that’s all.” 

Mr. Tyrrel replied, ‘‘ A bet with Mr. Mowbray, I suppose ?”’ 

“Ves, with Jack,” replied the Baronet—“ you have hit it— 
I hope I have done him ?” 

Tyrrel bent his brows, and looked first at Mr. Mowbray, 
then at the Baronet, and, after a moment’s thought, addressed 
the latter.—‘‘ Sir Bingo Binks, you are a gentleman of elegant 
inquiry and acute judgment.—You are perfectly right—I was 
not bred to the profession of an artist, nor did I practice it for- 
merly, whatever I may do now; and so that question is 
answered.” 

“And Jack is diddled,” said the Baronet, smiting his thigh 
in triumph, and turning toward the Squire and the stakeholder 
with a smile of exhultation. 

“‘Stop a single moment, Sir Bingo,” said Tyrrel; ‘take one 
word with you. I have a great respect for bets—it is part of 
an Englishman’s charter to “bet on what he thinks fit, and to 


82 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


prosecute his inquiries over hedge and ditch, as if he were 
steeple-hunting. But as I have satisfied you on the subject of 
two bets, that is sufficient compliance with the custom of the 
country; and therefore I request, Sir Bingo, you will not make 
me or my affairs the subject of any more wagers.”’ 

‘“‘T’]l1 be d—d if I do,” was the internal resolution of Sir 
Bingo. Aloud he muttered some apologies, and was heartily 
glad that the dinner-bell, sounding at the moment, afforded 
him an apology for shuffling off in a different direction. 


CHAPTER SIXTH. 


TABLE-TALK, 


And, sir, if these accounts be true, 
The Dutch have mighty things in view 
The Austrians—I admire French beans, 


Dear ma’am, above all other greens. 
* * * 


And all as lively and as brisk 
As—Ma’am, dy’e choose a game at whisk? 
TABLE-TALK, 


WHEN they were about to leave the room, Lady Penelope 
assumed Tyrrel’s arm with a sweet smile of condescension, 
meant to make the honored party understand in its full ex- 
tent the favor conferred. But the unreasonable artist, far 
from intimating the least confusion at an attention so little 
to be expected, seemed to consider the distinction as one 
which was naturally paid to the greatest stranger present; 
and when he placed Lady Penelope at the head of the 
table, by Mr. Winterblossom the president, and took a 
chair to himself betwixt her ladyship and Lady Binks, 
the provoking wretch appeared no more sensible of being ex- 
alted above his proper rank in society, thanif he had been 
sitting at the bottom of the table by honest Mrs. Blower from 
the Bowhead, who had come to the Well to carry off the 
dregs of the /zjlienzie, which she scorned to term a surfeit. 

_ Now this indifference puzzled Lady Penelope’s game ex- 
tremely, and irritated her desire to get at the bottom of Tyrrel’s 
mystery if there was one, and secure him to her own party. If 
you were ever at a watering-place, reader, you know that while the 
guests do not always pay the most polite attention to unmarked 


t 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 53 


individuals, the appearance of astray lion makes an interest as 
strong as itis reasonable, and the Amazonian chiefs of each 
coterie, like the hunters of Buenos Ayres, prepare their /asso, and 
manoeuvre to the best advantage they can, each hoping to noose 
the unsuspicious monster, and lead him captive to her own 
menagerie. A few words concerning Lady Penelope Pen- 
feather will explain why she practiced this sport with even more 
than common zeal. 

She was the daughter of an earl, possessed a showy person, 
and features which might be called handsome in youth, though 
now rather too much /vononces to render the term proper. The 
nose was become sharper ; the cheeks had lost the roundness of 
youth ; and as, during fifteen years that she had reigned a beauty 
and a ruling toast, the right man had not spoken, or, at least, 
had not spoken at the right time, her ladyship, now rendered 
sufficiently independent by the inheritance of an old relation, 
spoken in praise of friendship, began to dislike the town in 
summer, and to ‘‘ babble of green fields.”’ 

About the time that Lady Penelope thus changed the tenor 
of her life, she was fortunate enough, with Dr. Quackleben’s 
assistance, to find out the virtues of St. Ronan’s spring; and, 
having contributed her share to establish the Urds iz rure, which 
had risen around it, she sat herself down as leader of the fashions 
in the little province which she had in a great measure both 
discovered and colonized. She was, therefore, justly desirous 
to compel homage and tribute from all who should approach 
the territory. 

In other respects, Lady Penelope pretty much resembled 
the mumerous class she belonged to. She was at bottom a 
well-principled woman, but too thoughtless to let her principles 
control her humor, therefore not scrupulously nice in her 
society. She was good-natured, but capricious and whimsical, 
and willing enough to be kind or generous if it neither thwarted 
her humor, nor cost her much trouble ; would have chaperoneda 
young friend anywhere, and moved the world for subscription 
tickets : but never troubled herself how much her giddy charge 
flirted, or with whom; so that, with a numerous class of Misses, 
her ladyship was the most delightful creature in the world. 
Then Lady Penelope had lived so much in society, knew so ex- 
actly when to speak, and how to escape from an embarrassing 
discussion by professing ignorance while she looked intelligence, 
that she was not generally discovered to be a fool, unless when 
she set up for being remarkably clever. This happened more 
frequently of late when, perhaps, as she could not but observe 

that the repairs of the toilette became more necessary, she 


#4 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


might suppose that new lights, according to the poet, were 
streaming on her mind through the chinks that Time was making. 
Many of her friends, however, thought that Lady Penelope 
would have better consulted her genius by remaining in medi- 
ocrity, as a fashionable and well-bred woman, than by parading 
her new-founded pretensions to taste and patronage ; but such 
was not her own opinion, and, doubtless, her ladyship was the 
best judge. 

On the other side of Tyrrel sat Lady Binks, lately the beau- 
tiful Miss Bonnyrigg, who, during the last season, had made 
the company at the Well alternately admire, smile, and stare, 
by dancing the highest Highland fling, riding the wildest pony, 
laughing the loudest laugh at the broadest “joke, and wearing 
the briefest petticoat of any nymph of St. Ronan’s. Few knew 
that this wild, hoydenish, half-mad humor was only superin- 
duced over her real character, for the purpose of—getting well 
married. She had fixed her eyes on Sir Bingo, and was aware 
of his maxim, that tocatch him, “a girl must be,” in his own 
phrase,‘‘ bang up to everything ;”’ and that he would choose a 
wife for the neck-or-nothing qualities which recommend a good 
hunter. She made out her ‘catch-match, and she was miserable. 
Her wild good-humor was entirely an assumed part of her char- 
acter, which was passionate, ambitious, and thoughtful. Deli- 
cacy she had none—she knew Sir Bingo was a brute and a fool, 
even while she was hunting him down; but she had so far mis- 
taken her own feelings, as not to have expected that when she 
became bone of his bone, she should feel so much shame and 
anger when she saw his folly expose him to be laughed at and 
plundered, or so disgusted when his brutality became intimately 
connected with herself. It is true, he was, on the whole, rather 
an innocent monster; and between bitting and bridling, coax- 
ing and humoring, might have been made to pad on well 
enough, But an unhappy boggling which had taken place 
previous to the declaration of their private marriage, had so 
exasperated her spirits against her helpmate, that modes of 
conciliation were the last she was likely to adopt. Not only 
had the assistance of the Scottish Themis, so propitiously in- 
dulgent to the foibles of the fair, been resorted to on the 
occasion, but even Mars seemed ready to enter upon the tapis, 
if Hymen had not intervened. There was, de par le monde, a 
certain brother of the lady—an officer—and, as it happened, 
on leave of absence—who alighted from a hack-chaise at the 
Fox Hotel at eleven o’clock at night, holding in his hand a slip 
of well-dried oak, accompanied by another gentleman, who, 
like himself, wore a military traveling-cap and a black stock; 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 55 


out of the said chaise, as was reported by the trusty Toby, were 
handed a small reise-sac, an Andrea Ferrara, and a neat ma- 
hogany box, eighteen inches long, three deep, and some six 
broad. Next morning a solemn fadaver (as the natives of 
Madagascar call their national convention) was held at an un- 
usual hour, at which Captain MacTurk and Mr. Mowbray 
assisted; and the upshot was, that at breakfast the company 
were made happy by the information, that Sir Bingo had been 
for some weeks the happy bridegroom of their general favorite ; 
which union, concealed for family reasons, he was now at 
liberty to acknowledge, and to fly with the wings of love to 
bring his sorrowing turtle from the shades to which she had 
retired till the obstacles to their mutual happiness could be re- 
moved. Now, though all this sounded very smoothly, that 
galless turtle, Lady Binks, could never think of the tenor of 
the proceedings without the deepest feelings of resentment and 
contempt for the principal actor, Sir Bingo. 

Besides all these unpleasant circumstances, Sir Bingo’s 
family had refused to countenance her wish that he should 
bring her to his own seat; and hence a new shock to her pride, 
and new master of contempt against poor Sir Bingo, for being 
ashamed and afraid to face down the opposition of his kinsfolk, 
for whose displeasure, though never attending to any good 
advice from them, he retained a childish awe. 

The manners of the young lady were no less changed than 
was her temper; and, from being much too careless and free, 
were become reserved, sullen, and haughty. A consciousness 
that many scrupled to hold intercourse with her in society, 
rendered her disagreeably tenacious of her rank, and jealous of 
everything that appeared like neglect. She had constituted 
herself mistress of Sir Bingo’s purse; and, unrestrained in the 
expenses of dress and equipage, chose, contrary to her maiden 
practice, to be rather rich and splendid than gay, and to com- 
mand that attention by magnificence, which she no longer 
deigned to solicit by rendering herself either agreeable or 
entertaining. One secret source of her misery was, the neces- 
sity of showing deference to Lady Penelope Penfeather, whose 
understanding she despised, and whose pretensions to conse- 
quence, to patronage, and to literature, she had acuteness 
enough to see through, and to contemn; and this dislike was 
the more grievous, that she felt that she depended a good deal 
on Lady Penelope’s countenance for the situation she was able 
to maintain even among the not very select society of St. 
Ronan’s Well; and that, neglected by her, she must have drop- 
ped lower in the scale even there. Neither was Lady Penel 


56 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


ope’s kindness to Lady Binks extremely cordial. She partook 
in the ancient and ordinary dislike of single nymphs of a cer- 
tain age, to those who make splendid alliances under their very 
eye—and she more than suspected the secret disaffection 
of the lady. But the name sounded well; and the style in 
which Lady Binks lived was a credit to the place. So they 
satisfied their mutual dislike with saying a few sharp things to 
each other occasionally, but all under the mask of civility. 

Such was Lady Binks; and yet, being such, her dress, and 
her equipage, and carriages, were the envy of half the Misses 
at the Well, who, while she sat disfiguring with sullenness her 
very lovely face (for it was as beautiful as her shape was 
exquisite), only thought she was proud of having carried her 
point, and felt herself, with her large fortune and diamond 
bandeau, no fit company for the rest of the party. They gave 
way, therefore, with meekness to her domineering temper, 
though it was not the less tyrannical, that in her maiden state 
of hoydenhood, she had been to some of them an object of 
slight and of censure; and Lady Binks had not forgotten the 
offences offered to Miss Bonnyrigg. But the fair sisterhood 
submitted to her retaliations, as lieutenants endure the bully- 
ing of a rude and boisterous captain of the sea, with the secret 
determination to pay it home to their underlings when they 
shall become captains themselves. 

In this state of importance, yet of penance, Lady Binks 
occupied her place at the dinner-table, alternately disconcerted 
by some stupid speech of her lord and master, and by some 
slight sarcasm from Lady Penelope, to which she longed to 
reply, but dared not. 

She looked from time to time at her neighbor, Frank Tyrrel, 
but without addressing him, and accepted in silence the usual 
civilities which he proffered to her. She had remarked keenly 
his interview with Sir Bingo, and knowing by experience the 
manner in which her honored lord was wont to retreat from a 
dispute in which he was unsuccessful, as well as his genius for 
getting into such perplexities, she had little doubt that he had 
sustained from the stranger some new indignity ; whom, there- 
fore, she regarded with a mixture of feeling, scarce knowing 
whether to be pleased with him for having given pain to him 
whom she hated, or angry with him for having affronted one 
in whose degradation her own was necessarily involved. There 
might be other thoughts—on the whole, she regarded him with 
much though with mute attention. He paid her but little in 
return, being almost entirely occupied in replying to the ques- 
tions of the engrossing Lady Penelope Penfeather, 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 57 


Receiving polite though rather evasive answers to her in 
quiries concerning his late avocations, her ladyship could only 
learn that Tyrrel had been traveling in several remote parts of 
Europe, and even of Asia. Baffled, but not repulsed, the lady 
continued her courtesy, by pointing out to him, as a stranger, 
several individuals of the company to whom she proposed in- 
troducing him, as persons from whose society he might derive 
either profit or amusement. In the midst of this sort of con- 
versation, however, she suddenly stopped short. 

“Will you forgive me, Mr. Tyrrel,” she said, ‘if Isay Ihave 
been watching your thoughts for some moments, and that I 
have detected you? All the while I have been talking of 
these good folks, and that you have been making such civil 
replies, that they might be with great propriety and _ utility 
inserted in the ‘ Familiar Dialogues, teaching foreigners how 
to express themselves in English upon ordinary occasions ’— 
your mind has been entirely fixed upon that empty chair, which 
hath remained there opposite betwixt our worthy president and 
Sir Bingo Binks.” 

“IT own, adam,” he answered, “I was a little surprised at 
seeing such a distinguished seat unoccupied, while the table is 
rather crowded.” 

“Oh, confess more, sir !—Confess that to a poet a seat un- 
occupied—the chair of Banquo—has more charms than if it 
were filled even as an alderman would fill it—What if ‘ the 
Dark Ladye’* should glide in and occupy it ?—Would you 
have courage to stand the vision, Mr. Tyrrel ?—I assure you 
the thing is not impossible.” 

‘“‘ What is not impossible, Lady Penelope?” said Tyrrel, 
somewhat surprised. 

“Startled already ?—Nay, then I despair of your enduring 
the awful interview.” 

“What interview? who is expected?” said Tyrrel, unable 
with the utmost exertion to suppress some signs of curiosity, 
though he suspected the whole to be merely some mystification 
of her ladyship. 

“Tow delighted I am,” she said, “that I have found out 
where you are vulnerable !—Expected—did I say expected !— 
no, not expected. 


‘She glides, like Night, from land to land, 
She hath strange power of speech.’ 


—But come, I have you at my mercy, and I will be generous 
and explain.—We call—that is, among ourselves, you under- 
* Note C, The Dark Ladye. 


58 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


sté Miss Clara Mowbray, the sister of that gentleman that 
sits next to Miss Parker, the Dark Lacye, and that seat is left 
for her.—For she was expected—no, not expected—lI forget 
again !—but it was thought fosszb/e she might honor us to- 
day, when our feast was so full and piquant.—Her brother is 
our Lord of the Manor—and so they pay her that sort of civility 
to regard her as a visitor—and neither Lady Binks nor 
I think of objecting—She is a singular young person, Clara 
Mowbray—she amuses me very much—I am always rather 
glad to see her.” 

“She is not to come hither to-day,” said Tyrrel; “‘am I so 
to understand your Ladyship ?” 

“Why, it is past her time—even fer time,” said Lady 
Penelope—‘ dinner was kept back half-an-hour, and our poor 
invalids were famishing, as you may see by the deeds they have 
done since.—But Clara is an odd creature, and if she took it 
into her head to come hither at this moment, hither she would 
come—she is very whimsical.—Many people think her hand- 
some—but she looks so like something from another world, that 
she makes me always think of Mat Lewis’s Spectre Lady.” 

And she repeated with much cadence, 


““« There is a thing—there is a thing, 
I fain would have from thee; 
I fain would have that gay gold ring, 
O warrior, give it me!’ 


“ And then you remember his answer :— 


‘This ring Lord Brooke from his daughter took, 
And a solemn oath he swore, 

That that ladye my bride should be 
When this crusade was o’er.’ 


You do figures as well as landscapes, I suppose, Mr. Tyrrel ?— 
You shall make a sketch for me—a sight thing—for sketches, 
I think, show the freedom of art better than finished pieces— 
I dote on the first coruscations of gens. ete like light- 
ning from the cloud !—You shall make a sketch for my own 
boudoir——my dear sulky den at Air Castle, and Clara Mowbray 
shall sit for the Ghost Ladye.” 

“That would be but a poor compliment to your ladyship’s 
friend,” replied Tyrrel. 

“Friend? We don’t get quite that length, though I like 
Clara very well.—Quite sentimental cast of face enue think I] 
saw an antique in the Louvre very like her—(I was there in 
1800)—quite an antique countenance—eyes something hok 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. £9, 


lowed—care has dug caves for them, but they are caves of the 
most beautiful marble arched with jet—a straight nose, and 
absolutely the Grecian mouth and chin—a profusion of long 
straight black hair, with the whitest skin you ever saw—as 
white as the whitest parchment—-and not a shade of color 
in her cheek—none whatever—If she would be naughty, and 
borrow a prudent touch of complexion, she might be called 
beautiful. Even as it is, many think her so, although surely, 
Mr. Tyrrel, three colors are necessary to the female face, 
However, we used to call her the Melpomene of the Spring last 
season, as we called Lady Binks—who was not then Lady 
Binks—our Euphrosyne—Did we not, my dear?” 

“ Did we not what, madam?” said Lady Binks, in a tone 
something sharper than ought to have belonged to so beautiful 
a countenance. 

“YT am sorry I have started you out of your reverie, my 
love,” answered Lady Penelope. ‘I was only assuring Mr, 
Tyrrel that you were once Euphrosyne, though now so much 
under the banners of I] Penseroso.” 

* T do not know that I have been either one or the other,” 
answered Lady Binks; ‘one thing I certainly am not—I am 
not capable of understanding your ladyship’s wit and learning.” 

‘“Poor soul,” whispered Lady Penelope to Tyrrel; ‘we 
know what we are, we know not what we may be.—And now, 
Mr. Tyrrel, I have been your sibyl to guide you through this 
Elysium of ours, I think, in reward, I deserve a little confi- 
dence in return.” 

“Tf J had any to bestow, which could be in the slightest 
degree interesting to your ladyship,”’ answered ‘Tyrrel. 

“Oh! cruel man—he will not understand me!” exclaimed 
the lady—‘*‘ In plain words, then, a peep into your portfolio— 
just to see what objects you have rescued from natural decay, 
and rendered immortal by the pencil. You do not know— 
indeed, Mr. Tyrrel, you do not know how I dote upon your 
‘serenely silent art,’ second to poetry alone—equal—superior 
perhaps—to music.” 

“1 really have little that could possibly be worth the atten- 
tion of such a judge as your ladyship,” answered Tyrrel ; “ such 
trifles as your ladyship. has seen, I sometimes leave at the foot 
of the tree I have been sketching.” 

“As Orlando left his verses in the Forest of Ardennes ?— 
Oh, the thoughtless prodigality!—Mr. Winterblossom, do you 
hear this >—We must follow Mr. Tyrrel in his walks, and glean 
what he leaves behind him.” 

Her ladyship was here disconcerted by some laughter on 


60 ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


Sir Bingo’s side of the table, which she chastised by an angry 
glance, and then proceeded emphatically. 

“Mr. Tyrrel, this must zo¢ be—this is not the way of the 
world, my good sir, to which even Genius must stoop its flight. 
We must consult the engraver—though perhaps you etch as 
well as you draw?” 

‘“‘T should suppose so,” said Mr. Winterblossom, edging in 
a word with difficulty, “‘from the freedom of Mr. Tyrrel’s 
touch.” 

“* T will not deny my having spoiled a little copper now and 
then,” said Tyrrel, “since I am charged with the crime by such 
good judges; but it has only been by way of experiment.” 

“« Say no more,”’ said the lady ; ‘‘my darling wish is accom- 
plished !—We have long desired to have the remarkable and 
most romantic spots of our little Arcadia here—spots consecrat- 
ed to friendship, the fine arts, the loves and the graces, immortal- 
ized by the graver’s art, faithful to its charge of fame—you shall 
labor onthis task, Mr. Tyrrel; we will all assist with notes and 
illustrations—we will all contribute—only some of us must be 
permitted to remain anonymous—Fairy favors, you know, Mr. 
Tyrrel, must be kept secret—And you shall be allowed the 
pillage of the Album—some sweet things there of Mr. Chatterly’s 
—and Mr. Edgeit, a gentleman of your own profession, I am 
sure will lend his aid—Dr. Quackleben will contribute some 
scientific notices.—And for subscription ”—— 

“‘ Financial—financial—your leddyship, I speak to order!” 
said the writer, interrupting Lady Penelope with a tone of im- 
pudent familiarity, which was meant doubtless for jocular ease. 

“ How am I out of order, Mr. Meiklewham ?” said her 
Jadyship, drawing herself up. 

‘“‘T speak to order !—No warrants for money can be ex- 
tracted before intimation to the Committee of Management.” 

“* Pray who mentioned money, Mr. Meiklewham ? ” said her 
Jadyship.—‘‘ That wretched old pettifogger,” she added in a 
whisper to Tyrrel, “thinks of nothing else but the filthy pelf.” 

‘Ye spake of subscription, my leddy, whilk is the same 
thing as money, differing only in respect of time—the subscrip- 
tion being a contract de futuro, and having a tractus temporis in 
gremio—And J have kend mony honest folks in-the company at 
the Well complain of the subscriptions as a great abuse, as 
obliging them either to look unlike other folks, or to gie good 
lawful coin for ballants and picture-books, and things they 
caredna a pinch of snuff for.” 

Several of the company, as the lower end of the table, as- 
sented both by nods and murmurs of approbation ; and the 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 61 


orator was about to proceed, when Tyrrel with difficulty pro- 
cured a hearing before the debate went further, and assured 
the company that her ladyship’s goodness had led her into an 
error ; that he had no work in hand worthy of their patronage, 
and, with the deepest gratitude for Lady Penelope’s goodness, 
had it not in his power to comply with her request. There was 
some tittering at her ladyship’s expense, who, as the writer 
slyly observed, had been something w/¢ronious in her patronage. 
Without attempting for the moment any rally (as indeed the 
time which had passed since the removal of the dinner scarce 
permitted an opportunity), Lady Penelope gave the signal for 
the ladies’ retreat, and left the gentlemen to the circulation of 
the bottle. 


CHAPTER SEVENTH. 


THE TEA-TABLE. 


While the cups, 
hich cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each. 
COWPER. 


IT was common at the Well for the fair guests occasionally 
to give tea to the company,—such at least as, from their rank 
and leading in the little society, might be esteemed fit to con- 
stitute themselves patronesses of an evening ; and the same 
lady generally carried the authority she had acquired into the 
ball-room, where two fiddles and a bass, at a guinea a night, 
with a guantum sufficit of tallow-candles (against the use of 
which Lady Penelope often mutinied), enabled the company— 
to use the appropriate phrase—‘ to close the evening on the 
light fantastic toe.” 

On the present occasion the lion of the hour, Mr. Francis 
Tyrrel, had so little answered the high-wrought expectations of 
Lady Penelope, that she rather regretted having ever given 
herself any trouble about him, and particularly that of having 
manceuvred herself into the patronage of the tea-table for the 
evening, to the great expenditure of souchong and congo. 
Accordingly, her ladyship had no sooner summoned her own 
woman, and her file de chambre, to make tea, with her page, 
footman, and postilion, to hand it about (in which duty they 
were assisted by two richly laced and thickly powdered footmen 


62 ST, RONAN’S WELL. 


of Lady Binks’s, whose liveries put to shame the more modest. 


garb of Lady Penelope’s, and even dimmed the glory of the 
suppressed coronet upon the buttons), than she began to 
vilipend and depreciate what had been so long the object of 
her curiosity 

“This Mr. Tyrrel,’ she said, in a tone of authoritative 
decision, “‘ seems after all a very ordinary sort of person—quite 
a commonplace man, who, she dared say, had considered his 
condition, in going to the old ale-house, much better than they 
had done for him, when they asked him to the Public Rooms. 
He had known his own place better than they did—there was 
nothing uncommon in his appearance or conversation—nothing 
at all frappant—she scarce believed he could even draw that 
sketch. Mr. Winterblossom, indeed, made a great deal of it; 
but then all the world knew that every scrap of engraving or 
drawing, which Mr. Winterblossom contrived to make his own, 
was, the instantit came into his collection, the finest thing 
that ever was seen—that was the way with collectors—their 
geese were all swans.” 

“And your ladyship’s swan has proved but a goose my 
dearest Lady Pen,” said Lady Binks. 

*“* My swan, dearest Lady Binks! I really do not know how 
I have deserved the appropriation.” 

“Do not be angry, my dear Lady Penelope; I only mean 
that for a fortnight or more you have spoken constantly of this 
Mr. Tyrrel, and all dinner-time you spoke Zo him.” 

The fair company began to collect around, at hearing the 
word dear so often repeated in the same brief dialogue, which 
induced them to expect sport, and like the vulgar on a similar 
occasion, to form a ring for the expectant combatants. 

“He sat betwixt us, Lady Binks,” answered Lady Penelope. 
with dignity. “ You had your usual headache, you know, and 
for the credit of the company, I spoke for one.” 

“For two, if your ladyship pleases,” replied Lady Binks, 
‘*T mean,” she added, softening the expression, ‘for yourself 
and me.” 

“T am sorry,” said Lady Penelope, “‘ I should have spoken 
for one who can speak so smartly for herself, as my dear Lady 
Binks—I did not by any means desire to engross the conver- 
sation—I repeat it, there is a mistake about this man.” 

“T think there is,” said Lady Binks, in a tone which 
implied something more than mere assent to Lady Penelope’s 
proposition. 

“‘T doubt if he is an artist at all,”’ said the Lady Penelope; 


a 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 63 


“or if he is, he must be doing things for some Magazine, or 
Encyclopeedia, or some such matter.” 

“ZT doubt too, if he be a professional artist,” said Lady 
Binks. ‘If so, he is of the very highest class, for I have seldom 
seen a better-bred man.” 

“There are very well-bred artists,” said Lady Penelope. 
‘Tt is the profession of a gentleman.” 

‘Certainly,’ answered Lady Binks; ‘but the poorer class 
have often to struggle with poverty and dependence. In 
general society they are like commercial people in presence of 
their customers ; and that is a difficult part to sustain. And 
so you see them of all sorts—shy and reserved, when they are 
conscious of merit—petulant and whimsical, by way of show- 
ing their independence—intrusive, in order to appear easy— 
and sometimes obsequious and fawning, when they chance to 
be of a mean spirit. But you seldom see them quite at their 
ease, and therefore I hold this Mr. Tyrrel to be either an artist 
of the first class, raised completely above the necessity and 
degradation of patronage, or else to be no professional artist 
at all.” 

‘Lady Penelope looked at Lady Binks with much such a 
regard as Balaam may have cast upon his ass, when he dis- 
covered the animal’s capacity for holding an argument with 
him. She muttered to herself :— 


“ Mon ane parle, et méme il parle bien !”’ 


But declining the altercation which Lady Binks seemed 
disposed to enter into, she replied with good humor, “ Well, 
dearest Rachel, we will not pull caps about this man—nay, I 
think your good opinion of him gives him new value in my 
eyes. That is always the way with us, my good friend! We 
may confess it, when there are none of these conceited male 
wretches among us. We will know what he really is—he shall 
not wear fern-seed, and walk among us invisible thus—what 
say you, Maria?” . 

“ Indeed, I say, dear Lady Penelope,” answered Miss Digges, 
whose ready chatter we have already introduced to the reader, 
“he is a very handsome man, though his nose is too big, and 
his mouth too wide—but his teeth are like pearl—and he has 
such eyes !—especially when your ladyship spoke to him. I 
don’t think you looked at his eyes—they are quite deep and 
dark, and full of glow, like what you read to us in the letter. 
from that lady, about Robert Burns.” 

“Upon my word, miss, you come on finely,” said Lady 


64 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


Penelope.—‘‘ One had need take care what they read or talk 
about before you, I see—Come, Jones, have mercy upon us— 
put an end to that symphony of tinkling cups and saucers, and 
let the first act of the tea-table begin, if you please.” 

“Does her leddyship mean the grace,” said honest Mrs, 
Blower, for the first time admitted into this worshipful society, 
and busily employed in arranging an Indian handkerchief, that 
might have make a mainsail for one of her husband’s smuggling 
luggers, which she spread carefully on her knee, to prevent 
damage to a flowered black silk gown from the repast of tea 
and cake, to which she proposed todo due honor,—‘“ Does her 
leddyship mean the grace? I see the minister is just coming 
in.—Her leddyship waits till ye say a blessing, an ye please, 
Site / 

Mr. Winterblossom, who /odd/ed after the chaplain, his toe 
having given him an alert hint to quit the dining-table, though 
he saw every feature in the poor woman’s face swollen with 
desire to procure information concerning the ways and customs 
of the place, passed on the other side of the way, regardless of 
her agony of curiosity. 

A moment after she was relieved by the entrance of Dr. 
Quackleben, whose maxim being that one patient was as well 
worth attention as another, and who knew by experience, that 
the honoraria of a godly wife of the Bow-head were as apt to 
be forthcoming (if not more so), as my Lady Penelope’s, he 
e’en sat himself quietly down by Mrs. Blower, and proceeded 
with the utmost kindness to inquire after her health, and to 
hope she had not forgotten taking a table-spoonful of spirits 
burnt to a veszd@uum, in order to qualify the crudities. 

“Indeed, Doctor,’ said the honest woman, “I loot the 
brandy burn as lang as I dought look at the gude creature 
wastin its sell that gate—and then, when I was fain to put it 
out for very thrift, I did take a thimbleful of it (although it is 
not the thing I am used to, Dr. Quackleben), and I winna wi 
but that it did me good.” 

“ Unquestionably, madam,” said the Doctor. “I am no 
friend to the use of alcohol in general, but there are particular 
cases—there are particular cases, Mrs. Blower—My venerated 
instructor, one of the greatest men in our profession that ever 
lived, took a wine-glassful of old rum, mixed with sugar, every 
day after his dinner.” 

“Ay ? dear heart, he would be a comfortable doctor that,” 
said Mrs. Blower. ‘‘ He wad maybe ken something of my case. 
Ts he living, think ye, sir?” 

“Dead for many years, madam,” said Dr. Quackleben ; 


ST. RONAN?S WELL. 6c 


“and there are but few of his pupils that can fill his place, I 
assure ye. If I could be thought an exception, it is: only be- 
cause | was a favorite, Ah! blessings on the old red cloak of 
him !—It covered more of the healing science than the gowns 
of a whole modern university.” 

“ There is ane, sir,” said Mrs. Blower, “ that has been muckle 
recommended about Edinburgh—Macgregor, I think they ca’ 
him—folk come far and near to see him.” * 

“I know who you mean, ma’am—a clever man—no denying 
it—a clever man—but there are certain cases—yours, for ex- 
ample—and I think that of many that come to drink this 
water—which I cannot say I think he perfectly understands— 
hasty—very hasty and rapid. Now I—I give the disease its 
own way at first—then waich it, Mrs. Blower—watch the turn 
of the tide.” 

“Ah, troth, that’s true,’ responded the widow; “John 
Blower was aye watching turn of tide, puir man.” 

“Then he is a_ starving Doctor, Mrs. Blower—reduces 
diseases as soldiers do towns—by famine, not considering that 
the friendly inhabitants suffer as much as the hostile garrison 
—ahem !” 

Here he gave.an important and emphatic cough, and then 
proceeded. 

“Tam no friend either to excess or to violent stimulus, 
Mrs. Blower—but nature must be supported—a generous diet 
—cordials judiciously thrown in—not without the advice of a 
medical man—that is my opinion, Mrs. Blower, to speak as a 
friend—others may starve their patients if they have a mind.” 

“It wadna do for me, the starving, Dr. Keekerben,” said 
the alarmed relict, —‘‘ it wadna do for me at a’—Just a’ I can do 
to wear through the day with the sma’ supports that nature re- 
quires—not a soul to look after me, Doctor, since John Blower 
was ta’en awa.—Thank ye kindly, sir,” (to the servant who 
handed the tea),—‘“ thank ye, my bonny man” (to the page who 
served the cake)—‘‘ Now, dinna ye think, Doctor” (in a low 
and confidential voice), “ that. her leddyship’s tea is rather of 
the weakliest—water bewitched, I think—and Mrs. Jones, as 
they ca’ her, has cut the seed-cake very thin ?’ 

*‘Tt is the fashion, Mrs. Blower,’ answered Dr. Quackleben ; 
*‘ and her ladyship’s tea is excellent. But your taste is a little 
chilled, which is not uncommon at the first use of the waters, 
so that you are not sensible of the flavor—we must support the 


* The late Dr. Gregory is probably intimated, as one of the ce/ebrated 
Dr. Cullun’s personal habits is previously mentioned. Dr. Gregory was: 
distinguished for putting his patients on a severe regimen, 


66° ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


system—we reinforce the digestive powers—give me leave— 
you are a stranger, Mrs. Blower, and must take care of you 
—I have an elixir which will put that matter to rights in a 
moment.” 

So saying, Dr. Quackleben pulled from his pocket a small 
portable case of medicines— Catch me without my tools”—he 
said; “ here I have the real useful pharmacopceia—the rest is 
all humbug and hard names—this little case, with a fortnight 
or month, spring and fall, at St. Ronan’s Well, and no one will 
die till his day come.’ 

Thus boasting, the Doctor drew from his case a large vial 
or small flask, full of a high-colored liquid, of which he mixed 
three tea-spoonfuls in Mrs. Blower’s cup, who immediately 
afterward allowed that the flavor was improved beyond all 
belief, and that it was “ vera comfortable and restorative 
indeed.” 

“Will it not do good to my complaints, Doctor?” said 
Mr. Winterblossom, who. had strolled toward them, and held 
out his cup to the phy sician. 

‘‘] by no means recommend it, Mr. Winterblossom,” said 
Dr. Quackleben, shutting up his case with great coolness; 
‘“‘ your case is cedematous, and you treat it your own way—you 
are as good a physican as I am, and I never interfere with 
another practitioner’s patient.” 

‘¢ Well, Doctor,” said Winterblossom, ‘ I must wait till Sir 
Bingo comes in—he has a hunting-flask usually about him, 
which contains as good medicine as yours to the full.” 

“You will wait for Sir Bingo some time,” said the Doctor, 
“he is a gentleman of sedentary habits, he has ordered 
another magnum.” 

“ Sir Bingo is an unco name for a man o’ quality, dinna ye 
think sae, Dr. Cocklehen ?”’ said Mrs. Blower. “‘ John Blower, 
when he was a wee bit in the wind’s eye, as he ca’d it, puir 
fallow—used to sing a sang about a dog they ca’d Bingo, that 
suld hae belanged to a farmer.” 

‘f Our Bingo is but a puppy yet, madam—or if a dog he is q 
sad dog, ” said “Mr. Winterblossom, applauding his own wit by 
one of his own inimitable smiles. 

“Or a mad dog, rather,” said Mr. Chatterly, “forhe drinks 
no water,” and he also smiled gracefully at the thoughts of 
having trumped, as it were, the president’s pun 

‘Twa pleasant men, Doctor,” said the widow, ‘“ and so is 
Sir Bungy too, for that matter; but oh! is nae it a pity he 
should bide sae lang by the bottle? It was puir John Blower’s 
faut too, that weary tippling; when he wan to the lee-side of 


eet. ie 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 67 


a bowl of punch there was nae raising him.—But they are 
taking awa the things, and, Doctor, is it not an awfu_ thing, 
that the creature-comiorts should hae been used without grace 
or thanksgiving ?—that Mr. Chitterling, if he really be a minis- 
er, has muckle to answer for, that he neglects his Master’s 
service.” 

** Why, madam,” said the Doctor, “ Mr. Chatterly i is scarce 
arrived at the rank of a minister plenipotentiary.” 

“ A minister potentiary—ah, Doctor, I doubt that is some 
jest of ‘ yours,” said the widow; “ that’s sae. like puir John 
Blower. When I wad hae had him gie up the Lovely Peggy, 
ship and cargo (the vessel was named after me, Dr. Kittle- 
ben), to be remembered in the prayers o’ the congregation, he 
wad say to me,‘ ‘They may pray that stand the risk, Peggy 
Bryce, for I’ve made insurance.’ He was a merry man, Doctor; 
but he had the root of the matter in him, for a’ his light way 
of speaking, as deep as ony skipper that ever loosed anchor 
from Leith Roads. JI hae been a forsaken creature since his 
death—Oh the weary days and nights that. I have had !—and 
the weight on the spirits—the spirits, Doctor !—though I canna 
say I hae been easier since I hae been at the Wall than even now 
—if I kend what I was awing you for elickstir, Doctor, for it’s 
done me muckle heart’s good, forby the opening of my mind 
to you?” 

“Fie, fie, ma’am,” said the Doctor, as the widow pulled out 
a sealskin pouch, such as sailors. carry tobacco in, but appa- 
rently well stuffed with bank-notes,—‘* Fie, fie, madam—I am 
no apothecary—I have my diploma from Leyden—a. regular 
physician, madam,—the elixir is heartily at your service ; and 
should you want any advice, no man will be prouder to assist 
you than your humble servant.” 

“Tam sure I am muckle obliged to your kindness, Dr. 

Kickalpin,” said the widow, folding up her pouch; ‘this: was 
puir John Blower’s spleuchan,* as they ca’ it—I e’en wear it 
for his sake. He was a kind man, and left me comfortable in 
warld’s gudes; but comforts hae their cumbers,—to be a lone 
woman is a sair weird, Dr. Kittlepin.” 
Dr. Quackleben drew his ‘chair a little: nearer that of the 
widow, and entered into a closer communication with her, in a 
‘tone doubtless of more delicate consolation than was fit for the 
ears of the company at large. 

One of the chief delights of a ny ania ae is, that every 
one’s affairs seem to be put under the special surveillance of 


* A fur pouch for keeping tobacco. 


68 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


the whole company, so that, in all probability; the various 
flirtations, Zéazsons, and so forth, which naturally take place in 
the society, are not only the subject of amusement to the parties 
engaged, but also to the lookers on; that is to say, generally 
speaking, to the whole community, of which for the time the 
said parties are members. Lady Penelope, the presiding god- 
dess of the region, watchful over all her circle, was not long 
of observing that the Doctor seemed to be suddenly engaged 
in close communication with the widow, and that he had even 
ventured to take hold of her fair plump hand, with a manner 
which partook at once of the gallant suitor, and of the medical 
adviser. | 

‘“‘ For the love of Heaven,” said her ladyship, “‘ who can that 
comely dame be, on whom our excellent and learned Doctor 
looks with such uncommon regard ?” 

“Fat, fair, and forty,” said Mr. Winterblossom; “that is all 
I know of her—a mercantile person.” 

‘A carrack, Sir President,” said the chaplain, ‘ richly laden 
with colonial produce, by name the Lovely Peggy Bryce—no 
master—the late John Blower of North Leith having pushed 
off his boat for the Stygian Creek, and left the vessel without 
a hand on board.” 

“The Doctor,’ said Lady Penelope, turning her glass to- 
ward them, ‘‘seems willing to play the part of pilot.” 

'“T dare say he will be willing to change her name and 
register,’ said Mr. Chatterly. 

‘“He can be no less in common requital,” said Winter- 
blossom. “She has changed Azs name Six times in the five minutes 
that I stood within hearing of them.” 

“What do you think of the matter, my dear Lady Binks ?” 
said Lady Penclope, 

‘‘Madam ?’’ said Lady Binks, starting from a reverie, and 
answering: as one who either had not heard, or did not under- 
stand the: question. 

“JT mean; what think you of what is going on yonder ?”’ 

Lady Binks turned her glass in the. direction of Lady, Pe- 
nelope’s glance, fixed the widow and, the Doctor with one bold 
fashionable ‘stare, and then, dropping her hand slowly, said with 
indifference, ‘‘ I really see nothing there worth thinking about.” 

“IT dare: say.it is a fine thing to be married,” said Lady 
Penelope ; ‘‘ one’s thoughts, I suppose, are so. much, engrossed 
with one’s own perfect happiness, that they have neither time 
nor inclination to laugh like other folk.’ Miss Rachel .Bonny- 
rigg would have laughed till her eyes ran over, had she seen 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 69 


what Lady sinks cares so little about—I dare say it must be 
an all-sufficient happiness to be married.” 

‘“He would be a happy man that could convince your lady- 
ship of that in good earnest,” said Mr. Winterblossom. 

“Oh, who knows—the whim may strike me,” replied the 
lady ; “* but no—no—no ;—and that is three times.” 

“Say it sixteen times more,” said the gallant president, 
and let ninei‘een nay-says be a grant.” 

“If I should say a thousand Noes, there exists not the 
alchemy in living man that could extract one Yes out of the 
whole mass,” said her ladyship. ‘ Blessed be the memory of 
Queen Bess!—She sct us all an example to keep power when 
we have it—What noise is that ?” 

“Only the usual after-dinner quarrel,” said the divine. “TI 
hear the Captain’s voice, else most silent, commanding them to 
keep peace, in the devil’s name, and that of the ladies.” 

““Upon my word, dearest Lady Binks, this is too bad of that 
lord and master of yours, and of Mowbray, who might have 
more sense, and of the rest of that claret-drinking set, to be 
quarreling and alarming our nerves every evening with pre- 
senting their pistols perpetually at each other, like sportsmen 
confined to the house upon arainy 12th of August. I am tired 
of the Peace-maker—he but skins the business over in one case 
to have it break out elsewhere.—What think you, love, if we 
were to give out in orders, that the next quarrel which may 
arise, shall be dona fide fought to an end?—-We will all go 
out and see it, and wear the colors on each side; and if there 
should be a funeral come of it, we will attend it in a body.— 
Weeds are so becoming !—Are they not, my dear Lady Binks? 
Look at Widow Blower in her deep black—don’t you envy her, 
my love?” 

Lady Binks seemed about to makea sharp and hasty answer, 
but checked herself, perhaps under the recollection that she 
could not prudently come to an open breach with Lady Pe- 
nelope.—At the same moment a door opened, anda lady dressed 
in a riding-habit, and wearing a black veil over her hat, appeared 
at the entry of the apartment. 

“‘ Angels and ministers of grace!” exclaimed Lady Penelope, 
with her very best tragic start-—‘ My dearest Clara, why so late ? 
and why thus? Will you step to my dressing-room—Jones will 
get you one of my gowns—we are just of asize, you know—do, 
pray—let me be vain of something of my own for once, by see- 
ing you wear it.” 

This was spoken in the tone of the fondest female friend- 
ship, and at the same time, the fair hostess bestowed on Miss 


40 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


Mowbray one of those tender caresses, which ladies—God bless 
them !—sometimes bestow on each other with unnecessary 
prodigality, to the great discontent and envy of the male spec- 
tators. 

‘You are fluttered, my dearest Clara—you are feverish—I 
am sure you are,” continued the sweetly anxious Lady Pe- 
nelope ; ‘“‘ let me persuade you to lie down.” 

‘Indeed you are mistaken, Lady Penelope,” said Miss 
Mowbray, who seemed to receive much as a matter of course 
her ladyship’s profusion of affectionate politeness :—“I am 
heated, and my pony trotted hard, that is the whole mystery.— 
Let me have a cup of tea, Mrs. Jones, and the matter is ended.” 

“Fresh tea, Jones, directly,” said Lady Penelope, and led 
her passive friend to her own corner, as she was pleased to‘call 
the recess in which she: held her little court—ladies and gen- 
tleman courtesying and bowing as she passed; to which civil- 
ities the new guest made no more return than the most ordinary 
politeness rendered unavoidable. 

Lady Binks did not rise to receive her, but sat upright in 
her chair, and bent her head very stiffly; a courtesy which Miss 
Mowbray returned in the same stately manner without further 
greeting on either side. 

“Now, wha can that be, Doctor ?” said the Widow Blower 

‘“‘ mind ye have promised to tell me all about the grand folk 
Lewhd can that be that Leddy Penelope hauds such a racket 
wi’—and what for does she come wi’ a habit and a beaver-hat, 
when we are a’ (a glance at her own gown) 1 in our silks and 
satins ?”’ 

“To tell you who she is, my dear Mrs. Blower, is very easy,” 
said the officious Doctor. “She is Miss Clara Mowbray, sister 
to the Lord of the Manor—the gentleman who wears the green 
coat, with an arrow on the cape. ‘To tell why she wears that 
habit, or does anything else, would be rather beyond doctor’s 
skill. Truth is, I have always thought she was a little—a very 
little-—touched—call it nerves—hypochondria—or what you 
will.” 

“Lord help us, puir thing!” said the compassionate sacON 

—‘ And troth it looks like it. But it’s ashame to let her go 
loose, doctor—she might hurt hersell, or somebody. See she has 
ta’en the knife |—Oh, it’s only to cut a shave of the dietloaf, 
She winna let the powder-monkey of a boy help her. ‘There’s 
judgment in that though, Doctor, for she can cut thick’or thin 
as she likes.—Dear me! she has not taken mair than a’crumb, 
that ane would pit between the wires of a canary-bird’s cage, 
after all—-I wish she would lift up that lang veil, or put aff that 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 71 


riding skirt, Doctor. She should really be showed the regula- 
tions, Doctor Kickleshin.” 

“She cares about no rules we can make, Mrs. Blower,’ ’ said 
the Doctor; “and her brother’s will and pleasure, and Lady 
Penelope’s whim of indulging her, carry her through in every- 
thing. They should take advice on her case.” 

“‘ Ay, truly it’s time to take advice, when young creatures 
like her caper in among dressed leddies, just as if they were 
come from scampering on Leith sands.—Such a wark as my 
leddy makes wi’ her, Doctor! Ye would think they were baith 
fools of a feather.” 

“They might have flown on one wing, for what I know,” 
said Dr. Quackleben ; “but there was early and sound advice 
taken in Lady Penelope’s case. My friend, the late Earl of 
Featherhead, was a man of judgment—did little in his family 
but by rule of medicine—so that, what with the waters, and 
what with my own care, Lady Penelope is only freakish— 
fanciful—that’s all—and her quality bears it out—the peccant 
principle might have broken out under other treatment.” 

“¢ Ay—she has been weel-friended,” said the widow ; “ but 
this bairn Mowbray, puir thing! how come she to be sae left 
to hersell ?” 

“Her mother was dead—her father thought of nothing but 
his sports,” said the Doctor. ‘ Her brother was educated in 
England, and cared for nobody but himself, if he had been here. 
What education she got was at her own hand—what reading 
she read was in a library full of old romances—what friends or 
company she had was what chance sent her—then no family- 
physician, not even a good surgeon within ten miles! And so 
you cannot wonder if the poor thing became unsettled!” 

“Puir thing !—no doctor!—nor even a_ surgeon !—But, 
Doctor,” said the widow, “ maybe the puir thing had the enjoy- 
ment of her health ye ken, and then i 
_ “Aha? ha, ha!—why ¢#en, madam, she needed a physician 
far more than if she had been delicate. A skilful physician, 
Mrs. Blower, knows how to bring down that robust health, 
which is a very alarming state of the frame when it is con- 
sidered secundum artem. Most sudden deaths happen when 
people are in a robust state of health. Ah! that state of per- 
fect health is what the doctor dreads most on behalf of his 
patient.” 

““ Ay, ay, Doctor !—I am quite sensible, nae doubt,” said 
the widow, “ of the great advantage of having a skeelfu’ person 
about ane.” 

Here the Doctor’s voice, in his earnestness to convince Mrs, 


72 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


Blower of the danger of supposing herself capable of living and 
breathing without a medical man’s permission, sunk into a soft 
pleading tone, of which our reporter could not catch the sound. 
He was, as great orators will sometimes be, “ inaudible in the 
gallery.” 

Meanwhile, Lady Penelope overwhelmed Clara Mowbray 
with her caresses. In what degree her ladyship, at her heart, 
loved this young person, might be difficult to ascertain,—prob- 
ably in the degree in which a child loves a favorite toy. But 
Clara was a toy not always to be come by—as whimsical in her 
way as her ladyship in her own, only that poor Clara’s singu- 
larities were real, and her ladyship’s chiefly affected. Without 
adopting the harshness of the Doctor’s conclusions concerning 
the former, she was certainly unequal in her spirits ; and her 
occasional fits of levity were checkered by very long intervals 
of sadness. Her levity also appeared, in the world’s eye, 
greater than it really was ; for she had never been under the 
restraint of society which was really good, and entertained an 
undue contempt for that which she sometimes mingled with ; 
having unhappily none to teach her the important truth, that 
some forms and restraints are to be observed, less in respect 
to others than to ourselves. Her dress, her manners, and her 
ideas, were therefore very much her own ; and though they be- 
came her wonderfully, yet, like Ophelia’s garlands, and wild 
snatches of melody, they were calculated to excite compassion 
and melancholy, even while they amused the observer. 

“And why came you not to dinner ?>—We expected you— 
your throne was prepared?” 

‘“T had scarce come to tea,” said Miss Mowbray, “ of my 
own free will. But my brother says your ladyship proposes to 
come to Shaws Castle, and he insisted it was quite right and 
necessary, to confirm you in so flattering a purpose, that I 
should come and say, Pray do, Lady Penelope ; and so now 
here am I to say, Pray, do come.” 

*‘ Ts an invitation so flattering limited tome alone, my dear 
Clara ?—Lady Binks will be jealous.” 

“ Bring Lady Binks, if she has the condescension to honor 
us ”’—[a bow was very stiffly exchanged between the ladies]— 
“bring Mr. Springblossom—Winterblossom—and all the lions 
and lionesses—we have room for the whole collection. My 
brother, I suppose, will bring his own particular regiment of 
bears, which, with the usual assortment of monkeys seen in all 
caravans, will complete the menagerie. How you are to be 
entertained at Shaws Castle, is, I thank Heaven, not my busi- 
ness, but John’s.” 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 4 3 


“We shall want no formal entertainment, my love,’’ said 
Lady Penelope ; a d&etiner a la fourchette—we know Clara, 
you would die of doing the honors of a formal dinner.” 

“ Not a bit ; I should live long enough to make my will, and 
bequeath all large parties to Old Nick, who invented them.” 

‘ Miss Mowbray,” said Lady Binks, who had been thwarted 
by this free-spoken young lady, both in her former character of 
a coquette and romp, and in that of a prude which she at present 
wore—‘‘ Miss Mowbray declares for 


‘Champagne and a chicken at last.’ ” 


“ The chicken, without the champagne, if you please,” said 
Miss Mowbray ; “ I have known ladies pay dear to have cham- 
pagne on the board.—By the by, Lady Penelope, you have not 
your collection in the same order and discipline as Pidcock and 
Polito, There was much growling and snarling in the lower 
den when I passed it.” 

“It was feeding time, my love,” said Lady Penelope ; “ and 
the lower animals of every class become pugnacious at that 
hour—you see all our safer and well-conditioned animals are 
loose, and in good order.” 

“Oh, yes—in the keeper’s presence, you know—Well, I 
must venture to cross the hall again among all that growling 
and grumbling—I would I had the fairy prince’s quarters of 
mutton to toss among them if they should break out—He, I 
mean, who fetched water from the Fountain of Lions. How- 
ever, on second thoughts, I will take the back way, and avoid 
them.—What says honest Bottom ?— 


‘ For if they should as lions come in strife 
Into such place, ’twere pity of their life. 


¢ Shall I go with you, my dear ? ” said Lady Penelope. 

* No—I have too great a soul for that—I think some of 
them are lions only as far as the hide is concerned.” 

“¢ But why would you go so soon, Clara ? ” 

“ Because my errand is finished—have I not invited you and 
yours ? and would not Lord Chesterfield himself allow I have 
done the polite thing ? ” 

“ But you have spoken to none of the company-—how can 
you be so odd, my love ? ” said her ladyship. 

““ Why, I spoke to them all when I spoke to you and Lady 
Binks—but I am a good girl, and will do as I am bid.” 
So saying, she looked round the company, and addressed 


44 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


each of them with an affectation of interest and politeness, which 
thinly concealed scorn and contempt. 

“ Mr. Winterblossom, I hope the gout is better—Mr. Robert 
Rymar—(I have escaped calling him Thomas for once)—I hope 
the public give encouragement to the muses—Mr.Keelavine, I 
trust your pencil is busy—Mr. Chatterly, I have no doubt your 
flock improves—Dr. Quackleben, I am sure your patients 
recover.— These are all the especials of the worthy company 
I know—for the rest, health to the sick, and pleasure to the 
healthy.” 

‘“‘ You are not going in reality, my love ? ” said Lady Penel- 
ope ; “ these hasty rides agitate your nerves—they do, indeed 
—you should be cautious—Shall I speak to Quackleben ? ” 

“To neither quack nor quackle, on my account, my dear 
lady. It is not as you would seem to say, by your winking at 
Lady Binks—it is not, indeed—I shall be no Lady Clementina, 
to be the wonder and pity of the spring of St. Ronan’s—No 
Ophelia neither—-though I will say with her, Good-night, ladies 
—Good-night, sweet ladies !—and now—not my coach, my 
coach—but my horse, my horse !” 

So saying, she tripped out of the room bya side passage, 
leaving the ladies looking at each other significantly, and shak- 
ing their heads with an expression of much import. 

“* Something has ruffled the poor unhappy girl,” said Lady 
Penelope ; “ I never saw her so very odd before.” 

“ Were I to speak my mind,” said Lady Binks, “ I think, as 
Mrs. Highmore says in the farce, her madness is but a poor ex- 
cuse for her impertinence.” 

“Oh fie ! my sweet Lady Binks,” said Lady Penelope, 
*‘ spare my poor favorite ! You, surely, of all others, should for- 
give the excesses of an amiable eccentricity of temper.—For- 
give me, my love, but I must defend an absent friend—My 
Lady Binks, I am very sure, is too generous and candid-to 


‘ Hate for arts which caused herself to rise.’ 


“* Not being conscious of any high elevation, my lady,” an- 
swered Lady Binks, “ I do not know any arts I have been under 
the necessity of practicing to attain it. I suppose a Scotch lady 
of an ancient family may become the wife of an English baronet, ~ 
and no very extraordinary great cause to wonder at it.” 

‘““No, surely—but people in this world will, you know, 
wonder at nothing,” answered Lady Penelope. 

“Tf you envy me my poor quiz, Sir Bingo, I’ll get you a 
better, Lady Pen,” 


ST. RONAW’S WELL, 75 


“ T don’t doubt your talents, my dear; but when I want one, 
I will get one for myself.—But here comes the whole party of 
quizzes.—Joliffe, offer the gentlemen tea—then get the floor 
ready for the dancers, and set the card-tables in the next 
room.” 


GHAR PER Grr t EL. 
AFTER DINNER. 


They draw the cork, they broach the barrel, 
And first they kiss, and then they quarrel. 
PRIOR. 


Ir the reader had attended much to the manners of the 
canine race, he may have remarked the very different manner 
in which the individuals of the different sexes carry on their 
quarrels among each other. ‘The females are testy, petulant, 
and very apt to indulge their impatient dislike of each other’s 
presence, or the spirit of rivalry which it produces, in a sudden 
bark and snap, which Jast is generally made as much at advan- 
tage as possible. But these ebullitions of peevishness lead to 
no very serious or prosecuted conflict; the affair begins and 
ends ina moment. Not so the ire of the male dogs, which, 
once produced, and excited by growls of mutual offence and 
defiance, leads generally to a fierce and obstinate contest; in 
which, if the parties be dogs of game, and well-matched, they 
- grapple, throttle, roll each other in the kennel, and can only be 
separated by choking them with their own collars, till they 
lose wind and hold at the same time, or by surprising them 
out of their wrath by. sousing them with cold water. 

The simile, though a currish one, will hold good in its appli- 
cation to the human race. While the ladies in the tea-room 
of the Fox Hotel were engaged in the light snappish velitation, 
or skirmish, which we have described, the gentlemen who 
remained in the parlor were more than once like to have 
quarreled more seriously. 

We have mentioned the weighty reasons which induced Mr. 
Mowbray to look upon the stranger, whom a general invitation 
had brought into their society, with unfavorable prepossessions ; 
aad these were far from being abated by the demeanor of 
Tyrrel, which, though perfectly well bred, indicated a sense of 


56 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


equality, which the young Laird of St. Konan’s considered as 
extremely presumptuous. 

As for Sir Bingo, he already began to nourish the genuine 
hatred always entertained by a mean spirit against an antago- 
nist before whom it is conscious of having made a dishonor- 
able retreat. He forgot not the manner, look, and tone, with 
which Tyrrel had checked his unauthorized intrusion; and 
though he had sunk beneath it at the moment, the recollection 
rankled in his heart as an affront to be avenged. As he drank 
his wine, courage, the want of which was, in his more sober 
moments, a check upon his bad temper, began to inflame his 
malignity, and he ventured upon several occasions to show his 
spleen, by contradicting Tyrrel more flatly than good manners 
permitted upon so short an acquaintance, and without any 
provocation. ‘Tyrrel saw his ill humor, and despised it, as that 
of an overgrown schoolboy, whom it was not worth his while 
to answer according to his folly. 

One of the apparent causes of the Baronet’s rudeness was 
indeed childish enough. The company were talking of shoot- 
ing, the most animating topic of conversation among Scottish 
country gentlemen of the younger class, and Tyrrel had men- 
tioned something of a favorite setter, an uncommonly hand- 
some dog, from which he had been for some time separated, 
but which he expected would rejoin him in the course of 
next *week. 

‘A setter!” retorted Sir Bingo, with a sneer; “a pointer, 
I suppose you mean !” 

‘“‘No, sir,” said Tyrrel; “I am perfectly aware of the 
difference betwixt a setter and a pointer, and I know the 
old-fashioned setter is become unfashionable among modern 
sportsmen, But I love my dog as a companion, as well as 
for his merits in the field; and a setter is more sagacious, 
more attached, and fitter for his place on the hearth-rug, than 
a pointer—not,” he added, “from any deficiency of intellects 
on the pointer’s part, but he is generally so abused while in 
the management of brutal breakers and grooms, that he loses 
all excepting his professional accomplishments, or finding and 
standing steady to game.” 

““And who the d—1 desires he should have more ?” said 
Sir Bingo, 

‘Many people, Sir Bingo,” replied Tyrrel, “have been of 
opinion, that both dogs and men may follow sport indifferently 
well, though they do happen, at the same time, to be fit for 
mixing in friendly intercourse in society.” 

“That is, for licking trenchers, and scratching copper, I 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. | 


suppose,” said the Baronet sotfo voce ; and added, in a louder 
and more distinct tone,—‘“ He never before heard that a setter 
was fit to follow any man’s heels but a poacher’s.” 

* You know it now then, Sir Bingo,” answered Tyrrel; 
“and I hope you will not fall into so great a mistake again.” 

The Peace-maker here seemed to think his interference 
necessary, and, surmounting his taciturnity, made the following 
pithy speech :—‘“‘ By Cot! and do you see, as you are looking 
for my opinion, I think there is no dispute in the matter— 
because, by Cot! it occurs to me, d’ye see, that ye are both 
right, by Cot! It may do fery well for my excellent friend Sir 
Bingo, who hath stables, and kennels, and what not, to main- 
tain the six filthy brutes that are yelping and yowling all the 
tay, and all the neight too, under my window, by Cot !—And 
if they are yelping and yowling there, may I never die, but I 
wish they were yelping and yowling somewhere else. But 
then there is many a man who may be as cood achentleman at 
the bottom as my worthy friend Sir Bingo, though it may be 
that he is poor; and if he is poor—and asif it might be my 
own Case, or that of this honest chentleman, Mr. Tirl, is that 
a reason or a law, that he is not to keep a prute of a tog, to 
help him to take his sports and his pleasures? and if he has 
not a stable or a kennel to put the crature into, must he not 
keep it in his pit of ped-room, or upon his parlor hearth, seeing 
that Luckie Dods would make the kitchen too hot for the paist 
—and so, if Mr. Tirl finds a setter more fitter for his purpose 
than a pointer, by Cot, I know no law against it, else may I 
never die the black death.” 

If this oration appear rather long for the occasion, the 
reader must recollect that Captain MacTurk had in all prob- 
ability the trouble of translating it from the periphrastic lan- 
guage of Ossian, in which it was originally conceived in his own 
mind. 

The Man of Law replied to the Man of Peace, “Ye are 
mistaken for ance in your life, Captain, for there is a law 
against setters; and I will undertake to prove them to be the 
‘lying dogs’ which are mentioned inthe auld Scots statute, and 
which all and sundry are discharged to.keep, under a penalty 
of tg es 

Here the Captain broke in, with a very solemn mien and 
dignified manner—‘“‘ By Cot ! Master Meiklewham, and I shall 
be asking what you mean by talking to me of peing mistaken 
and apout lying togs, sir—pecause I would have you to know, 
and to pelieve, and to very well consider, that I never was 


78 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


mistaken in my life, sir, unless it was when I took you fora 
chentleman.” 

‘““No offence, Captain,” said Mr. Meiklewham; “dinna 
break the wand of peace, man, you that should be the first to 
keep it. He is as cankered,” continued the Man of Law, apart 
to his patron, “‘as an auld Hieland terrier, that snaps at what-~ 
ever comes near it—but I tell you ae thing, St. Ronan’s, and 
that is on saul and conscience, that I believe this is the very 
lad Tirl, that [ raised a summons against before the justices— 
him and another hempie—i i 
the Springwell-head muirs,” 

“The devil you did, Mick!” replied the Lord of the Manor, 
also aside ;—‘‘ Wel] I am obliged to you for giving me some 
reason for the ill thoughts I had of him—lI knew he was some 
trumpery scamp—l’ll blow him, by” 

a cea Aga diputasa cartes your tongue, St. Ronan’s— 
by your 
itor fay fait eo S desire, Befuie the Quarter Sessions—but I ken 
na—The auld sheriff-clerk stood the lad’s friend—and some of 
the justices thought it was but a mistake of the marches, and 
sae we couldn’t get a judgment—and your father was very ill 
of the gout, and I was feared to vex him, and so I was fain to 
let the process sleep, for fear they had been assoilzied.—Sae 
ye had better gang cautiously to work, St. Ronan’s, for though 
they were summoned, they were not convict.” 

‘Could you not take up the action again?” said Mr. Mow- 
bray. 

“Whew ! it’s been prescribed sax or seeven year syne. It 
is a great shame, St. Ronan’s, that the game-laws, whilk are 
he very best protection that is left to country gentlemen 
against the encroachment of their inferiors, rin sae short a 
course of prescription—a poacher may just jink ye back and 
forward like a flea in a blanket (wi’ pardon)—hap ye out of 
ae county and into anither at their pleasure, like pyots— 
and unless ye get your thumb-nail on them in the very nick o’ 
time, ye may dine on a dish of prescription, and sup upon an 
absolvitor.”’ 

“Tt is a shame indeed,” said Mowbray, turning from his 
confidant and agent, and addressing himself to the company in 
general, yet not without a peculiar look directed to Tyrrel. 

‘“What is a shame, sir?” said Tyrrel, conceiving that the 
observation was particularly addressed to him. 

‘That we should have so many poachers upon our muirs, 
sir,” answered St, Ronan’s, “sometimes regret having coun- 


SZ. RONAN’S WELL. 79 


tenanced the Well here, when I think how many guns it has 
brought on my property every season.” 

“Hout fie! hout awa, St. Ronan’s!” said his Man of Law ; 
“no countenance the Waal? What would the country-side 
be without it, I would be glad to ken? It’s the greatest im- 
provement that has been made on this country since the year 
forty-five. Na, na, it’s no the Waal that’s to blame for the 
poaching and delinquencies on the game.—We maun to the 
Aultoun for the howf of that kind of cattle. Our rules at the 
Waal are clear and express against trespassers on the game.” 

“TI can’t think,” said the Squire, ‘‘ what made my father sell 
the property of the old change-house yonder, to the hag that 
keeps it open out of spite, I think, and to harbor poachers and 
vagabonds !—I cannot conceive what made him do so foolish a 
thing!” 

“Probably because your father wanted money, sir,” said 
Tyrrel, dryly; “and my worthy landlady, Mrs. Dods, had got 
some.—You know, I presume, sir, that I lodge there ?” 

“Oh, sir,” replied Mowbray, in a tone betwixt scorn and 
civility, ‘‘you cannot suppose the present company is alluded 
to; I only presumed to mention as a fact, that we have been 
annoyed with unqualified people shooting on our grounds, 
without either liberty or license.—And I hope to have her sign 
taken down for it—that is all—There was the same plague in 
my father’s days, I think, Mick?” 

But Mr. Meiklewham, who did not like Tyrrel’s looks so 
well as to induce him to become approver on the occasion, re- 
plied with an inarticulate grunt, addressed to the company, and 
a private admonition to his patron’s own ear, ‘‘to let sleeping 
dogs lie.” 

“TI can scarce forbear the fellow,” said St. Ronans; “ and 
yet I cannot well tell where my dislike to him hes—but it 
would be a d—d folly to turn out with him for nothing ; and so, 
honest Mick, I will be as quiet as I can.” 

“ And that you may be so,” said Meiklewham, “i think you 
had best take no more wine.” 

“‘T think so too,” said the Squire ; ‘‘for each glass I drink 
in his company gives me the heartburn—yet the man is not 
different from other raffs either—but there is a something 
about him intolerable to me.” 

So saying, he pushed back his chair from the table, and 
-—regis ad exemplar—afier the pattern of the Laird, all the 
company arose. 

Sir Bingo got up with reluctance, which he testified by two 
or three deep growls, as he followed the rest of the company 


80 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


into the outer apartment, which served as an entrance-hall, and 
divided the dining-parlor from the tea-room, as it was called. 
Here, while the party were assuming their hats, for the purpose 
of joining the ladies’ society (which old-fashioned folk used 
only to take up for that of going into the open air), Tyrrel 
asked a smart footman, who stood near, to hand him the hat 
which lay on the table beyond. 

“Call your own servant, sir,’’ answered the fellow, with the 
true insolence of a pampered menial. 

“Your master,” answered Tyrrel, “ought to have taught 
you good manners, my friend, before bringing you here.” 

“Sir Bingo Binks is my master,” said the fellow, in the 
same insolent tone as before. 

‘‘ Now for it, Bingie,”’ said Mowbray, who was aware that 
the Baronet’s pot-courage had arrived at fighting-pitch. 

“Yes!” said Sir Bingo aloud, and more articulately than 
usual.— The fellow is my servant—what has any one to say 
tout?” 

“T at least have my mouth stopped,” answered Tyrrel, with 
perfect composure. ‘I should have been surprised to have 
found Sir Bingo’s servant better bred than himself,” 

“What d’ye mean by that, sir?” said Sir Bingo, coming up 
in an offensive attitude, for he was no mean pupil of the Fives- 
Court—‘‘ What d’ye mean by that? D——n you, sir! I'll serve 
you out before you can say dumpling.” 

“And I, Sir Bingo, unless you presently lay aside that look 
and manner, will knock you down before you can cry help.” 

The visitor held in his hand a slip of oak, with which he 
gave a flourish, that, however slight, intimated some acquaint- 
ance with the noble art of single-stick. From this demonstra- 
tion Sir Bingo thought it prudent somewhat to recoil, though 
backed by a party of friends, who, in their zeal for his honor, 
would rather have seen his bones broken in conflict bold, than 
his honor injured by a discreditable retreat; and Tyrrel 
seemed to have some inclination to indulge them. But, at 
the very instant when his hand was raised with a motion of 
no doubtful import, a whispering voice, close to his ear, pro- 
nounced the emphatic words—“ Are you a man?” 

Not the thrilling tone with which our inimitable Siddons 
used to electrify the scene, when she uttered the same whisper, 
ever had a more powerful effect upon an auditor, than had 
these unexpected sounds on him, to whom they were now 
addressed. Tyrrel forgot everything—his quarrel —the cir- 
cumstances in which he was placed—the company. The crowd 
was to him at once annihilated, and life seemed to have no 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 81 


other object than to follow the person who had spoken. But 
suddenly as he turned, the disappearance of the monitor was at 
jeast equally so, for, amid the group of commonplace counte- 
nances by which he was surrounded, there was none which 
assorted to the tone and words which possessed such a power 
ovet him. ‘ Make way,” he said to those who surrounded 
him ; and it was in the tone of one who was prepared, if neces- 
sary, to make way for himself. 

Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s stepped forward. ‘‘ Come, sir,” 
said he, “this will not do—you have come here, a stranger 
among us, to assume airs and dignities, which, by G—d 
would become a duke, or a prince! We must know who or 
what you are, before we permit you to carry your high tone any 
further.” 

This address seemed at once to arrest Tyrrel’s anger, and his 
impatience to leave the company. He turned to Mowbray, 
collected his thoughts for an instant, and then answered him 
thus :—‘‘ Mr. Mowbray, I seek no quarrel with any one here,— 
with you, in particular, 1 am most unwilling to have any dis- 
agreement. I came here by invitation, not certainly expecting 
much pleasure, but, at the same time, supposing myself secure 
from incivility. In the last point I find myself mistaken, and 
therefore wish the company good-night. I must also make my 
adieu to the ladies.” So saying, he walked several steps, yet, 
as it seemed, rather irresolutely, toward the door of the card- 
room—and then, to the increased surprise of the company, 
stopped suddenly, and muttering something about the “ unfit- 
ness of the time,” turned on his heel, and bowing haughtily, as 
there was way made for him, walked in the opposite direction 
toward the door which led to the outer hall. 

“D—n me, Sir Bingo, will you let him off?” said Mowbray, 
who seemed to delight in pushing his friend into new scrapes— 
“To him, man—to him—he shows the white feather.” 

Sir Bingo, thus encouraged, planted himself with a look of 
defiance exactly between Tyrrel andthe door; upon which the 
retreating guest, bestowing on him most emphatically the 
epithet Fool, seized him by the collar,.and flung him out of his 
way with some violence. 

“Tam to be found at the Old Town of St. Ronan’s by 
whomsoever has any concern with me,”—Without waiting the 
issue of this aggression further than to utter these words, Tyrrel 
left the hotel. He stopped in the courtyard, however, with the 
air of one uncertain whither he intended to go, and who was 
desirous to ask some question, which seemed to die upon his 
tongue. At length his eye fell upon a groom, who stood not 


82 SZ. RONAN’S WELL. 


far from the door of the inn, holding in his hand a hanusome 
pony, with a side-saddle. 

‘‘ Whose,’”—— said Tyrrel, but the rest of the question he 
seemed unable to utter. 

The man, however, replied, as if he had heard the whole 
interrogation.— Miss Mowbray’s, sir, of St. Ronan’s—she 
leaves directly—and so I am walking the pony—a clever thing, 
sir, for a lady.” 

‘She returns to Shaws Castle by the Buck-stane road ? ” 

““T suppose so, sir,” said the groom. ‘ It is the nighest, and 
Miss Clara cares little for rough roads. Zounds ! she can spank 
it over wet and dry.” 

Tyrrel turned away from the man, and hastily left the hotel 
—not, however, by the road which led to the Aultoun, but by 
a footpath among the natural copsewood, which, following the 
course of the brook, intersected the usual horse-road to Shaws - 
Castle, the seat of Mr. Mowbray, at a romantic spot called the 
Buck-stane. 

In a small peninsula, formed by a winding of the brook, was 
situated, on a rising hillock, a large rough-hewn pillar of stone, 
said by tradition to commemorate the fall of a stag of unusual 
speed, size, and strength, whose flight, after having lasted 
through a whole summer’s day, had there terminated in death, 
to the honor and glory of some ancient Baron of St. Ronan’s, 
and of his stanch hounds. During the periodical cuttings of 
the copse, which the necessities of the family of St. Ronan’s 
brought round more frequently than Ponty would have recom- 
mended, some oaks had been spared in the neighborhood of 
this massive obelisk, old enough perhaps to have heard the 
whoop and halloo which followed the fall of the stag, and to 
have witnessed the raising of the rude monument, by which 
that great event was commemorated. These trees, with their 
broad spreading boughs, made a twilight even of noon-day, 
and now, that the sun was approaching its setting point, their 
shade already anticipated night. This was especially the case 
where three or four of them stretched their arms over a deep 
gully, through which winded the horse-path to Shaws Castle, 
at a point about a pistol-shot distant from the Buck-stane. 
As the principal access to Mr. Mowbray’s mansion was by a 
carriage-way which passed in a different direction, the present 
path was left almost in a state of nature, full of large stones, 
and broken by gullies, delightful from the varied character of 
its banks, to the picturesque traveler, and most inconvenient, 
nay, dangerous, to him who had a stumbling horse. 

The footpath to the Buck-stane, which here joined the bridle- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 83 


road, had been constructed at the expense of a subscription, 
under the direction of Mr. Winterblossom, who had taste 
enough to see the beauties of this secluded spot, which was 
exactly such as in earlier times might have harbored the 
ambush of some marauding chief. This recollection had not 
escaped Tyrrel, to whom the whole scenery was familiar, who 
now hastened to the spot, as one which peculiarly suited his 
present purpose. He sat down by one of the larger projecting 
trees, and, screened by its enormous branches from observation, 
was enabled to watch the road from the Hotel for a great part 
of its extent, while he was himself invisible to any who might 
travel upon it. 

Meanwhile his sudden departure excited a considerable 
sensation among the party whom he had just left, and who 
were induced to form conclusions not very favorable to his 
character. Sir Bingo, in particular, blustered loudly and more 
loudly, in proportion to the increasing distance betwixt himself 
and his antagonist, declaring his resolution to be revenged on 
the scoundrel for his insolence—to drive him from the neigh- 
borhood,—and I know not what other menaces of formidable 
import. The devil, in the old stories of diablerie, was always 
sure to start up at the elbow of any one who nursed diabolical 
purposes, and only wanted a little backing from the foul fiend 
to carry his imagination into action. The noble Captain 
MacTurk had so far this property of his infernal majesty, that 
the least hint of an approaching quarrel drew him always to 
the vicinity of the party concerned. He was now at Sir Bingo’s 
side, and was taking his own view of the matter, in his charac- 
ter of peace-maker. 

“By Cot! and it’s very exceedingly true, my good friend, Sir 
Binco—and as you say, it concerns your honor, and the honor 
of the place, and credit and character of the whole company, by 
Cot ! that this matter be properly looked after; for, as I think, 
he laid hands on your body, my excellent goot friend.” 

“Hands, Captain MacTurk!” exclaimed Sir Bingo in some 
confusion ; “no, blast him—not so bad as that neither—if he 
had, I should! have handed Aim over the window—but by ; 
the fellow had the impudence to offer to collar me—I had just 
stepped back to square at him, when, curse me, the blackguard 
ran away.” 

“Right, vara right, Sir Bingo,” said the Man of Law, “a 
vara perfect blackguard, a poaching sorning sort of fallow, that 
I will have scoured out of the country before he be three days 
aulder. Fash you your beard nae further about the matter, 
Sir Bingo,” 


84 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“ By Cot! but I can tell you, Mr. Meiklewham,” said the 
Man of Peace, with great solemnity of visage, ‘‘that you are 
scalding your lips in other folk’s kale, and that it is necessary 
for the credit, and honor, and respect of this company, at the 
Well of St. Ronan’s, that Sir Binco goes by more competent 
advice than yours upon the present occasion, Mr. Meiklewham: 
for though your counsel may do very well ina small-debt court, 
here, do you see, Mr. Meiklewham, is a question of honor, 
which is not a thing in your line, as I take it.” 

‘“No, before George! is it not,” answered Meiklewham ; 
“‘e’en take it all to yoursell, Captain, and meikle ye are likely to 
make on’t.” 

“Then,” said the Captain, “ Sir Binco, I will beg the favor 
of your company to the smoking room, where we may have a 
cigar anda glass of gin-twist; and we will consider how the 
honor of the company must be supported and upholden upon 
the present conjuncture.” 

The Baronet complied with this invitation, as much, perhaps, 
in consequence of the medium through which the Captain in- 
tended to convey his warlike counsels, as for the pleasure with 
which he anticipated the result of these counsels themselves. He 
followed the military step of his leader, whose stride was more 
stiff, and his form more perpendicular, when exalted by the 
consciousness of an approaching quarrel, to the smoking room, 
where, sighing as he lighted his cigar, Sir Bingo prepared to 
listen to the words of wisdom and valor as they should flow in 
mingled stream from the lips of Captain MacTurk. 

‘Meanwhile the rest of the company joined the ladies, 
“Here has been Clara, ” said the Lady Penelope to Mr. Mow- 
bray; ‘‘ here has been Miss Mowbray among ur, like the ray of 
a sun which does but dazzle and die.” 

‘Ah, poor Clara,” said Mowbray ; “ I thought I saw her thread 
her way through the crowd a little while since, but I was not 
sure.” 

“Well,” said Lady Penelope, “‘she has asked us all up to 
Shaws Castle on Thursday, to a deiner a la fourchetie—I trust 
you confirm your sister’s invitation, Mr. Mowbray?” 

“Certainly, Lady Penelope,” replied Mowbray ; “and I am 
truly glad Clara has had the grace to think of it—How we shall 
acquit ourselves is a different question, for neither she nor I are 
much accustomed to play host or hostess.” 

“Oh! it will be delightful, I am sure,” said Lady Penelope ; 
“Clara has a grace in a everything she does; and you, Mr, 
Mowbray, can be a perfectly well-bred gentleman—when you 
please,”’ 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 85 


“That qualification is severe—Well—good manners be my 
speed —I will certainly please to do my best, when I see your 
ladyship at Shaws Castle, which has réceived no company this 
many a day.—Clara and I have lived a wild life of it, each in 
their own way.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Mowbray,” said Lady Binks, “if I might pre- 
sume to speak—TI think you do suffer your sister to rides about 
too much without an attendant. I know Miss Mowbray rides as 
woman never rode before, but still an accident may happen.” 

“An accident ?” replied Mowbray—‘ Ah, lady Binks! acci- 
dents happen as frequently when ladies ave attendants as when 
they are without them.” 

Lady Binks, who, in her maiden state, had cantered a good 
deal about these woods under Sir Bingo’s escort, colored, looked 
spiteful, and was silent. 

“ Besides,” said John Mowbray, more lightly, ‘ where is the 
risk, after all? ‘There are no wolves in our woods to eat up 
our pretty Red-Riding-Hoods; and no lions either—except 
those of Lady Penelope’s train.” 

“Who draw the car of Cybele,” said Mr. Chatterly. 

Lady Penelope luckily did not understand the allusion, which 
was indeed better intended than imagined. 

** Apropos! ” she said ; “‘ what have you done with the great 
lion of the day? I see Mr. Tyrrel nowhere —Is he finishing an 
additional bottle with Sir Bingo ?” 

“Mr. Tyrrel, madam,” said Mowbray, ‘“ has acted succes- 
sively the lion rampant and the lion passant; he has been quar- 
relsome, and he has run away—fled from the ire of your doughty 
knight, Lady Binks.” 

‘J am sure I hope not,” said Lady Binks ; ‘“‘my Chevalier’s 
unsuccessful campaigns have been unable to overcome his taste 
for quarrels—a victory would make a fighting man of him for 
life.” 

“That inconvenience might bring its own séonsol nana 
said Winterblossom apart to Mowbray ; “ quarrelers do not 
usually live long.” 

“No, no,” replied Mowbray, “the lady’s despair, which 
broke out just now, even in her own despite, is quite natural 
—absolutely legitimate. Sir Bingo will give her no chance that 
way. 

Mowbray then made his bow to Lady Penelope, and in 
answer to her request that he would join the ball or the card 
table, observed, that he had no time to lose ;_ that the heads of 
the old domestics at Shaws Castle would be by this time abso- 
lutely turned, by the apprehensions of what Thursday was to 


86 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


bring forth; and that as Clara would certainly give no direc 
tions for the proper arrangements, it was necessary that he 
should take that trouble himself. 

‘Tf you ride smartly,” said Lady Penelope, ‘‘ you may save 
even a temporary alarm, by overtaking Clara, dear creature, 
ere she gets home—She sometimes suffers her pony to go at 
will along the lane, as slow as Betty Foy’s.” 

“ Ah, but then,” said little Miss Digges, “Miss Mowbray 
sometimes gallops as if the lark was a snail to her pony—and 
it quite frights one to see her.” 

The Doctor touched Mrs. Blower, who had approached so as 
to be on the verge of the genteel circle, though she did not 
venture within it,—They exchanged sagacious looks, and a most 
pitiful shake of the head. Mowbray’s eye happened at that 
moment to glance on them; and doubtless, notwithstanding 
their hasting to compose their countenances to a different 
expression, he comprehended what was passing through their 
minds ; and perhaps it awoke a corresponding note in his own. 
He took his hat, and with a cast of thought upon his counte- 
nance which it seldom wore; left the apartment. A moment 
afterward his horse’s feet were heard spurning the pavement, 
as he started off at a sharp pace. 

“There is something singular about these Mowbrays to- 
night,” said Lady Penelope.—‘“ Clara, poor dear angel, is 
always particular ; but I should have thought Mowbray had 
too much worldly wisdom to be fanciful—What are you 
consulting your souzenzr for with such attention, my dear Lady 
Binks?” 

‘Only for the age of the moon,” said her ladyship, putting 
the little tortoise-shell bound calendar into her reticule; and 
having. done so, she proceeded to assist Lady Penelope in the 
arrangements for the evening. 


CHAPTER NINTH. 


THE MEETING. 


We meet as shadows in the land of dreams, 
Which speak not but in signs. 
ANONYMOUS. 


BEHIND one of the old oaks which we have described in the 
preceding chapter, shrouding himself from observation like a 
hunter watching for his game, or an Indian for his enemy, but 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 87 


with different, very different purpose, Tyrrel lay on his breast 
near the Buck-stane, his eye on the horse-road which winded 
down the valley, and his ear alertly awake to every sound which 
mingled with the passing breeze, or with the ripple of the 
brook. 

“ ‘To have met her in yonder congregated assembly of brutes 
and fools ”—such was a part of his internal reflections,—-“ had 
been little less than an act of madness—madness almost equal 
in its degree to that cowardice which has hitherto prevented 
my approaching her, when our eventful meeting might have 
taken place unobserved.—But now—now—my resolution is as 
fixed as the place is itself favorable. J will not wait till some 
chance again shall throw us together, with a hundred malignant 
eyes to watch, and wonder, and stare, and try in vain to account 
for the expression of feelings which I might find it impossible 
to suppress.—Hark—Hark!—I hear the tread of a horse.— 
No—it was the changeful sound of the water rushing over the 
pebbles. Surely she cannot have taken the other road to 
Shaws Castle !—No—the sounds become distinct—her figure 
is visible on the path, coming swiftly forward—Have I the 
courage to show myself ?—I have—the hour is come, and what 
must be shall be.” 

Yet this resolution was scarcely formed ere it began to 
fluctuate, when he reflected upon the fittest manner of carrying 
it into execution. To show himself at a distance, might give 
the lady an opportunity of turning back and avoiding the in- 
terview which he had determined upon—to hide himself till 
the moment when her horse, in rapid motion, should pass his 
lurking-place, might be attended with danger to the rider— 
and while he hesitated which course to pursue, there was some 
chance of his missing the opportunity of presenting himself to 
Miss Mowbray at all. . He was himself sensible of this, formed 
a hasty and desperate resolution not to suffer the present mo- 
ment to escape, and, just as the ascent induced the pony to 
slacken its pace, Tyrrel stood in the middle of the defile, about 
six yards distant from the young lady. 

She pulled up the reins, and stopped as. if arene by a 
thunderbolt.—*“ Clara ! i Tyrrel!” These were the only 
words, which were exchanged between ‘them, until Tyrrel, mov- 
ing his feet as slowly as if they had been. of lead, began grad- 
ually to diminish the distance which lay bewixt them. It was 
then that, observing his closer approach, Miss. Mowbray called 
out with great eagerness,—‘‘ No nearer—no _ nearer !—So long 
have I endured your presence, but if you approach me more 
closely, I shall be mad indeed |” 


88 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


“What do you fear?” said Tyrrel, in a hollow voice— 
“* What can you fear?” and he continued to draw nearer, until 
they were within a pace of each other. 

Clara, meanwhile, dropping her bridle, clasped her hands 
together, and held them up toward Heaven, muttering, ina 
voice scarcely audible, ‘‘ Great God !—if this apparition be 
formed by my heated fancy, let it pass away ; if it be real, 
enable me to bear its presence !—Tell me, I conjure you, are 
you Francis Tyrrel in blood and body, or is this but one of 
those wandering visions that have crossed my path and glared 
on me, but without daring to abide my steadfast glance ? ” 

‘‘T am Francis Tyrrel,” answered he, “‘ in blood and body, 
as much as she to whom I speak is Clara Mowbray.” 

‘Then God have mercy on us both! ” said Clara, in a tone 
of deep feeling. 

“Amen!” said Tyrrel.—‘ But what avails this excess of 
agitation >—You saw me but now, Miss Mowbray—your voice 
still rings in my ears—You saw me but now—you spoke to me 
—and that when I was among strangers—-Why ‘not preserve 
your composure when we are where no human eye can see—no 
human ear can hear?” 

‘Ts itso?” said Clara; ‘‘ and was it indeed yourself whom 
I saw even now ?—I thought so, and something I said at the 
time—but my brain has been but ill settled since we last met— 
But I am well now—quite well—I have invited all the people 
yonder to come to Shaws Castle—my brother desired me to do 
it—I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Tyrrel there 
—though I think there is some old grudge between my brother 
and you.” 

“ Alas ! Clara, you mistake. Your brother I have scarcely 
seen,” replied Tyrrel, much distressed, and apparently uncer- 
tain in what tone to address her, which might soothe, and not 
irritate her mental malady, of which he could now entertain no 
doubt. 

‘‘ "True—true,” she said, after a moment’s refléction, “ my 
brother was then at college. It was my father, my poor father, 
whom you had some quarrel with.—But you will come to 
Shaws Castle on Thursday at two o’clock ?—John will be glad 
to see you—he can be kind when he pleases—and then we will 
talk of old times—I must get on to have things ready—Good 
evening.” ; 

She would have passed him, but he took gently hold of the 
rein of her bridle-—* I will walk with you, Clara,” he said ; 
“the road is rough and dangerous—you ought not to ride fast. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 89 


—j will walk along with you, and we will talk of former times 
now, more conveniently than in company.” 

“ ‘True—true—very true, Mr. Tyrrel—it shall be as you 
say. My brother obliges me sometimes to go into company at 
that hateful place down yonder ; and I do so because he likes 
it, and because the folks let me have my own way, and come 
and go as I list. Do you know, Tyrrel, that very often when I 
am there, and John has his eye on me, [ can carry it on as gayly 
as if you and I had never met ? ” 

** T would to God we never had,” said Tyrrel, in atrembling 
voice, ‘‘ since this is to be the end of all ! ” 

‘And wherefore should not sorrow be the end of sin and 
of folly ? And when did happiness come of disobedience ?— 
And when did sound sleep visit a bloody pillow? ‘That is what 
I say to myself, Tyrrel, and that is what you must learn to say 
too, and then you will bear your burden as cheerfully as I 
endure mine. If we have no more than our deserts, why should 
we complain ?—You are shedding tears, I think—TIs not that 
childish ?—They say it is a relief—if so, weep on, and I will 
look another way.” 

‘Tyrrel walked on by the pony’s side, in vain endeavoring to 
compose himseif so as to reply. 

‘Poor Tyrrel,” said Clara, after she had remained silent 
for some time—‘“ Poor Frank Tyrrel !—Perhaps you will say in 
your turn, poor Clara—but I am not so poor in spirit as you— 
the blast may bend, but it shall never break me.” 

There was another long pause; for Tyrrel was unable to 
determine with himself in what strain he could address the un- 
fortunate young lady, without awakening recollections equally 
painful to her feelings, and dangerous, when her precarious 
state of health was considered. At length she herself pro- 
ceeded :— 

“What needs all this, Tyrrel ?—and indeed, why came you 
here ?—Why did I find you but now brawling and quarreling 
among the loudest of the brawlers and quarrelers of yonder 
idle and dissipated debauchees ?—You were used to have more 
temper—more sense. Another person—ay, another that you 
and I once knew—he might have committed such a folly, and 
he would have acted perhaps in character—But you, who pre- 
tend to wisdom—for shame, for shame !—And indeed, when we 
talk of that, what wisdom was there in coming hither at all ?— 
or what good purpose can your remaining here serve ?—Surely 
you need not come, either to renew your own unhappiness or 
to augment mine ? ” 

“To augment yours—God forbid!” answered ‘Tyrrel. 


go SZ. RONAN’S WELL. 


“ No—I came hither only because, after so many years of 
wandering, I longed to visit the spot where all my hopes lay 
buried.” 

‘“¢ Ay—buried is the word,” she replied, ‘crushed down and 
buried when they budded fairest. I often think of it, Tyrrel ; 
and there are times when, Heaven help me! I can think of 
little else.—Look at me—you remember what I was—see what 
grief and solitude have made me.’ . 

She flung back the veil which surrounded her riding-hat, 
and which had hitherto hid her face. It was the same coun- 
tenance which he had formerly known in all the bloom of early 
beauty; but though the beauty remained, the bloom was fled 
for ever. Not the agitation of exercise—not that which arose 
from the pain and confusion of this unexpected interview, had 
called to poor Clara’s cheek even the momentary semblance of 
color. Her complexion was marble-white, like that of the finest 
piece of statuary. 

“Ts it possible ?”’ said Tyrrel; “‘can grief have made such 
ravages ?” 

“‘ Grief,” replied Clara, ‘is the sickness of the mind, and its 
sister is the sickness of the body—they are twin-sisters, Tyrrel, 
and are seldom long separate. Sometimes the body’s disease 
comes first, and dims our eyes and palsies our hands, before 
the fire of our mind and of our intellect is quenched. But 
mark me—soon after comes her cruel sister with her urn, and 
sprinkles cold dew on our hopes and on our loves, our memory, 
our recollections, and our feelings, and shows us that they can- 
not survive the decay of our bodily powers.” 

“Alas!” said Tyrrel, ‘is. it.come to. this ?;” 

“To this,” she replied, speaking from the rapid and irre- 
gular train of her own ideas, rather than comprehending. the 
purport of his sorrowful exclamation, — to this it must ever 
come, while, immortal souls are wedded to the perishable sub- 
stance of which our bodies are composed. There is another 
state, Tyrrel, in which it will be otherwise—God grant our time 
of enjoying it were come!” 

She fell into a melancholy pause, which Tyrrel was afraid 
to disturb. The quickness with which she spoke marked but 
too plainly the irregular succession of thought, and he was 
obliged to restrain “the agony of his own feelings, rendered 
more acute by a thousand painful recollections, lest by giving 
way to his expressions of grief, he should throw her into a still 
more disturbed state of mind. 

““T did not think,” she proceeded, “that after so horrible a 
separation, and so many years, I could have met you thus 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. gr 


calmly and reasonably. But although what we were formerly 
to each other can never be forgotten, it is now all over, and we 
are only friends—Is it not so?” 

‘Tyrrel was unable to reply. 

“ But I must not remain here,’ she said, ‘till the evening 
grows darker on me.—We shall meet again, Tyrrel—meet as 
friends—nothing more—You will come up to Shaws Castle and 
see me ?—no need of secrecy now—my poor father is in his 
grave, and his prejudices sleep with him—my brother John is 
kind though he is stern and severe sometimes—lIndeed, ‘Tyrrel, 
I believe he loves me, though he has taught me to tremble at 
his frown when I am in spirits and talk too much—But he 
loves me, at least I think so, for I am sure I love him; and I 
try to go down amongst them yonder, and to endure their folly, 
and, all things considered, I do carry on the farce of life won- 
derfully well—We are but actors, you know, and the world but 
a stage.” 

“And ours has been a sad and tragic scene,” said Tyrrel, in 
the bitterness of his heart, unable any longer to refrain from 
speech. 

“Tt has indeed—but, Tyrrel, when was it otherwise with 
engagements formed in youth and in folly? You and I would, 
you know, become men and women while we were yet scarcely 
more than children—We have run, while vet in our nonage, 
through the passions and adventures of youth, and therefore 
we are now old before our day, and the winter of our life has 
come on ere its summer was well begun.—O Tyrrel! often and 
often have I thought of this!—Thought of it often? Alas! 
when will the time come that I shall be able to think of any- 
thing else!” 

The poor young woman sobbed bitterly, and her tears 
began to flow with a freedom which they had not probably en- 
joyed for a length of time. Tyrrel walked on’ by the side of 
her horse, which now prosecuted its road homeward, unable 
to devise a proper mode of addressing the unfortunate young 
lady, and fearing alike to awaken her passions and his own. 
Whatever he might have proposed to say was disconcerted by 
the plain indications that her mind was clouded, more or less 
slightly, with a shade: of insanity, which deranged, though it 
had not destroyed, her powers of judgment. 

At length he asked her, with as much calmness as he could 
assume—if she was contented—if aught could be done to ren- 
der her situation more easy—if there was aught of which she 
could complain which he might be able to remedy? She an- 
swered gently, that she was calm and resigned, when her 


y2 ST. RONAN'S WELL, 


brother would permit her to stay at home ; but that, when she 
was brought into society, she experienced such a change as 
that which the water of the brook that slumbers in a crystal- 
line pool of the rock may be supposed to feel, when, gliding 
from its quiet bed, it becomes involved in the hurry of the 
cataract. 

‘But my brother Mowbray,” she said, “thinks he is right, 
—and perhaps he isso. ‘There are things on which we may 
ponder too long;—and were he mistaken, why should I not 
constrain myself in order to please him ?—there are so few left 
to whom I can now give either pleasure or pain.—l am a gay 
girl, too, in conversation, T'yrrel—still as gay for a moment, as 
when you used to chide me for my folly. So, now I have told 
you all,—I have one question to ask on my part—one question 
—if I had but breath to ask it—is e still alive?” 

‘He lives,” answered Tyrrel, but in a tone so low, that 
nought but the eager attention which Miss Mowbray paid 
could possibly have caught such feeble sounds. 

‘“‘ Lives !”’ she exclaimed,—“ lives !—he lives, and the blood 
on your hand is not then indelibly imprinted—O Tyrrel, did 
you but know the joy which this assurance gives to me!” 

“ Joy!’ replied Tyrrel—‘ joy, that the wretch lives who has 
poisoned our happiness forever !—lives, perhaps, to claim you 
for his own?” 

‘““ Never, never, shall he—dare he do so,” replied Clara, 
wildly, ‘‘ while water can drown, while cords can strangle, steel 
pierce—while there is a precipice on the hill, a pool in the 
river—never—never !” 

‘“‘ Be not thus agitated, my dearest Clara,” said Tyrrel; “1 
spoke I know not what—he lives indeed—but far distant, and, 
I trust, never again to revisit Scotland.” 

He would have said more, but that, agitated with fear or 
passion, she struck her horse impatiently with her riding whip. 
The spirited animal, thus stimulated and at the same time re- 
strained, became intractable, and reared so much, that Tyrrel, 
fearful of the consequences, and trusting to Clara’s skill asa 
horsewoman, thought he best consulted her safety in letting go 


the rein. The animal instantly sprung forward on a broken 


and hilly path at a very rapid pace, and was soon lost to 
Tyrrel’s anxious eyes. 

As he stood pondering whether he ought not to follow Miss 
Mowbray toward Shaws Castle, in order to be satisfied that no 
accident had befallen her on the road, he heard the tread of a 
horse’s feet advancing hastily in the same direction, leading 
from the Hotel. Unwilling to be observed at this moment, he 


S7T..RONAN’S WELL. 93 


stepped aside under the shelter of the underwood, and presently 
afterward saw Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s, followed by a 
groom, ride hastily past his lurking-place, and pursue the 
same road which had been just taken by his sister. The pres- 
ence of her brother seemed to assure Miss Mowbray’s safety, 
and so removed ‘Tyrrel’s chief reason for following her. In- 
volved in deep and melancholy reflection upon what had passed, 
nearly satisfied that his longer residence in Clara’s vicinity 
could only add to her unhappiness and his own, yet unable to 
tear himself from that neighborhood, or to relinquish feelings 
which had become entwined with his heart strings, he returned 
to his lodgings in the Aultoun in a state of mind very little to be 
envied. 

Tyrrel, on entering his apartment, found that it was not 
lighted, nor were the abigails of Mr. Dods quite so alert asa 
waiter at Long’s might have been to supply him with candles. 
Inapt at any time to exact much personal attendance, and de- 
sirous to shun at that moment the necessity of speaking to any 
person whatever, even on the most trifling subject, he walked 
down into the kitchen to supply himself with what he wanted. 
He did not at first observe that Mrs. Dods herself was present 
in this the very centre of her empire, far less that a lofty air of 
indignation was seated on the worthy matron’s brow. At first 
it only vented itself in broken soliloquy and interjections; as, 
for example, ‘ Vera bonny wark this !—vera creditable wark, in- 
deed !—a decent house to be disturbed at these hours—Keep a 
public—as weel keep a bedlam!”’ 

Finding these murmurs attracted no attention, the dame 
placed herself betwixt her guest and the door, to which he was 
now retiring with his lighted candle, and demanded of him 
what was the meaning of such behavior. 

“ Of what behavior, madam?” said her guest, repeating 
her question in a tone of sternness and impatience so unusual 
with him, that perhaps she was sorry at the moment that she 
had provoked him out of his usual patient indifference ; nay, she 
might even feel intimidated at the altercation she had provoked, 
for the resentment of a quiet and patient person has always in 
it something formidable to the professed and habitual grumbler. 
But her pride was too great to think ofa retreat, after having 
sounded the signal for contest, and so she continued, though in 
a tone somewhat lowered. 

“Maister Tirl, 1 wad but just ask you, that are a man of 
sense, whether I hae ony right to take your behavior weel? 
Here have you been these ten days and mair, eating the best, 
and drinking the best, and taking up the best room in my 


94 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


house ; and now to think of your gaun down and taking up with 
yon idle hare-brained cattle at the Waal—I maun e’en be plain 
wi’ ye—I like nane of the fair-fashioned folk that can say My 
Jo, and think it no; and therefore ”’ 

““Mrs. Dods,” said Tyrrel, interrupting her, “I have no 
time at present for trifles. I am obliged to you for your atten- 
tion while I have been in your house; but the disposal of my 
time, here or elsewhere, must be according to my own ideas of 
pleasure or business—if you are tired of me as a guest, send in 
your bill to-morrow.” 

“My bill!” said Mrs. Dods; “my bill to-morrow! And 
what for no wait till Saturday, when it may be cleared atween 
us, plack and bawbee, as it was on Saturday last ?” 

“ Well—we will talk of it to-morrow, Mrs. Dods—Good- 
night.” And he withdrew accordingly. 

Luckie Dods stood ruminating for a moment. ‘The deil’s 
in him,” she said, “for he winna bide being thrawn. And I 
think the deil’s in me too for thrawing him, sic a canny lad, and 
sae gude a customer ;—and I am judging he has something on 
his mind—want of siller it canna be—I am sure, if I thought 
that, I wadna care about my small thing.—But want o’ siller it 
canna be—he pays ower the shillings as if they were sclate 
stanes, and that’s no the way that folks part with their siller 
when there’s but little on’t—I ken weel eneugh how a customer 
looks that’s near the grund of the purse.—Weel! I hope he 
winna mind onything of this nonsense the morn, and I'll try to 
guide my tongue something better.—Hegh, sirs! but, as the 
ministers says, it’s an unruly member—troth, I am whiles 
ashamed o’t mysell.” 


CHAPTER TENTH. 


RESOURCES, 


Come, come, let me have thy counsel, for I need it; 
Thou art of those, who better help their friends 
With sage advice, than usurers with gold, 
Or brawlers with their swords—I’1l trust to thee, 
For I ask only from thee words, not deeds. 
THE DEVIL HATH MET HIS MATCH. ~ 


THE day of which we last gave the events chanced to be 
Monday, and two days therefore intervened betwixt it and that 
for which the entertainment was fixed, that was to assemble in 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 95 


the halls of the Lord of the Manor the flower of the company 
now at St. Ronan’s Well. ‘The interval was but brief for the 
preparations necessary on an occasion so unusual; since the 
house, though delightfully situated, was in very indifferent 
repair, and for years had never received any visitors, except 
when some blithe bachelor or fox-hunter shared the hospitality 
of Mr. Mowbray ; an event which became daily more and more 
uncommon; for, as he himself almost lived at the Well, he 
generally contrived to receive his companions where it could be 
done without expense to himself. Besides, the health of his 
sister afforded an irresistible apology to any of those old- 
fashioned Scottish gentlemen, who might be too apt (in the 
rudeness of more primitive days) to consider a friend’s house 
as their own. Mr. Mowbray was now, however, to the great 
delight of all his companions, nailed down, by invitation given 
and accepted, and they looked forward to the accomplishment 
of his promise, with the eagerness which the prospect of some 
entertaining novelty never fails to produce among idlers. 

A good deal of trouble devolved on Mr. Mowbray, and his 
trusty agent, Mr. Meiklewham, before anything like decent 
preparation could be made for the ensuing entertainment; and 
they were left to their unassisted endeavors by Clara, who, 
during both the Tuesday and Wednesday, obstinately kept 
herself secluded; nor could her brother, either by threats or 
flattery, extort from her any light concerning her purpose on 
the approaching and important Thursday. ‘To do John Mow-” 
bray justice, he loved his sister as much as he was capable of 
loving anything but himself; and when, in several arguments, 
he had the mortification to find that she was not to be prevailed 
on to afford her assistance, he, without complaint, quietly set 
himself to do the best he could by his own unassisted judgment 
or opinion with regard to the necessary preparations. 

This was not, at present, so easy a task as might be sup- 
posed; for Mowbray was ambitious of that character of Zon and 
elegance, which masculine faculties alone are seldom capable 
of attaining on such momentous occasions. The more solid 
materials of a collation were indeed to be obtained for money 
from the next market town, and were purchased: accordingly ; 
but he felt it was likely to present the vulgar plenty of a farm- 
er’s feast, instead of the eley‘ant entertainment, which might be 
announced in a corner of the country paper, as given by John 
Mowbray, Esq. of St. Ronan’s, to the gay and fashionable coms 
pany assembled at that celebrated spring. ‘There was likely 
to be all sorts of error and irregularity in dishing, and in send- 
ing up; for Shaws Castle boasted neither an “accomplished 


96 ST. RONAN’?S WELL, 


housekeeper, nor a kitchenmaid with a hundred pair of hands 
to execute her mandates. All the domestic arrangements were 
on the minutest system of economy consistent with ordinary 
decency, except in the stables, which were excellent and well 
kept. But can a groom of the stables perform the labors of a 
groom of the chambers? or can the gamekeeper arrange in 
tempting order the -carcasses of the birds he has shot, strew 
them with flowers, and garnish them with piquant sauces? It 
would be as reasonable to expect a gallant soldier to act as 
undertaker, and conduct the funeral of the enemy he has slain. 

In a word, Mowbray talked, and consulted, and advised, and 
squabbled, with the deaf cook, and a little old man, whom he 
called the butler, until he at length perceived so little chance 
of bringing order out of confusion, or making the least advan- 
tageous impression on such obdurate understandings as he had 
to deal with, that he fairly committed the whole matter of the 
collation, with two or three hearty curses, to the charge of the 
officials principally concerned, and proceeded to take the state 
of the furniture and apartments under his consideration. 

Here he found himself almost equally helpless; for what 
male wit is adequate to the thousand little coquetries practiced 
in such arrangements ? how can masculine eyes judge of the 
degree of demz-jour which is to be admitted into a decorated 
apartment, or discriminate where the broad light should be 
suffered to fall on a tolerable picture, where it should be 
excluded, lest the stiff daub of a periwigged grandsire should 
become too rigidly prominent? And if men are unfit for 
weaving such a fairy web of light and darkness as may best 
suit furniture, ornaments, and complexions, how shall they be 
adequate to the yet more mysterious office of arranging, while 
they disarrange, the various movables in the apartment? so 
that while all has the air of negligence and chance, the seats 
are placed as if they had been transported by a wish to the 
spot most suitable for accommodation; stiffness and confusion 
are at once avoided, the company are neither limited to a 
formal circle of chairs, nor exposed to break their noses over 
wandering stools; but the arrangements seem to correspond to 
what ought to be the tone of the conversation, easy, without 
being confused, and regulated, without being constrained or 
stiffened. 

Then how can aclumsy male wit attempt the arrangement of 
all the chiffonerie, by which old snuff-boxes, heads of canes, 
pomander-boxes, lamer beads, and the trash usually found in 
the pigeon-holes of the bureaus of old-fashioned ladies, may be 
now brought into play, by throwing them, carelessly grouped 


ST. RONAN’S WELT. 97 


with other unconsidered trifles, such as are to be seen in the 
windows of a pawnbroker’s shop, upon a marble excognure, or 
a mosaic work-table, thereby turning to advantage the trash 
and trinketry, which all old maids or magpies, who have in- 
habited the mansion for a century, have contrived to accumu- 
late. With what admiration of the ingenuity of the fair artist 
have I sometimes pried into these miscetlaneous groups of 
pseudo-byouterie, and seen the great grandsire’s thumb-ring 
couchant with the coral and bell of the firstborn—and the boat- 
swain’s whistle of some old naval uncle, or his silver tobacco- 
box, redolent of Oroonoko, happily grouped with the mother’s 
ivory comb-case, still odorous of musk, and with some virgin 
aunt’s tortoise-shell spectacle-case, and the eagle’s talon. of 
ebony, with which, in the days of long and stiff stays, our 
grandmothers were wont to alleviate any little irritation in 
their back or shoulders! Then there was the silver strainer, 
on which, in more economical times than ours, the lady of the 
house placed the tea-leaves, after the very last drop had been 
exhausted, that they might afterward be hospitably divided 
among the company, to be eaten with sugar, and with bread 
and butter. Blessings upon a fashion which has rescued from 
the claws of abigails, and the melting-pot of the silversmith, 
those neglected cime/ia, for the benefit of antiquaries and the 
decoration of side-tables! But who shall presume to place them 
there, unless under the direction of female taste? and of that 
Mr. Mowbray, though possessed of a large stock of such 
treasures, was for the present entirely deprived. 

This digression upon his difficulties is already too long, or I 
might mention the Laird’s inexperience in the art of making 
the worse appear the better garnishment, of hiding a darned 
carpet with a new floor-cloth, and flinging an Indian shawl 
over a faded and threadbare sofa. But I have said enough, 
and more than enough, to explain his dilemma to any unas- 
sisted bachelor, who, without mother, sister, or cousin, without 
skilful housekeeper, or experienced clerk of the kitchen, or 
valet of parts and figure, adventures to give an entertainment, 
and aspires to make it elegant and comme i faut. 

The sense of his insufficiency was the more vexatious to 
Mowbray, as he was aware he would find sharp critics in the 
ladies, and particularly in his constant rival, Lady Penelope 
Penfeather. He was, therefore, incessant in his exertions ; 
and for two whole days, ordered and disordered, demanded, 
commanded, countermanded, and reprimanded, without pause 
or cessation. ‘The companion, for he could not be termed an 
assistant of his labors, was his trusty, agent, who. trotted from’ 


98 ST. RONAN'’S WELL. 


room to room after him, affording him exactly the same degree 
of sympathy which a dog doth to his master when distressed in 
mind, by looking in his face from time to time with a piteous 
gaze, as if to assure him that he partakes of his trouble, though 
he neither comprehends the cause or the extent of it, nor has 
in the slightest degree the power to remove it. 

At length, when’ Mowbray had got some matters arranged 
to his mind, and abandoned a great many, which he would 
willingly have put in better order, he sat down to dinner upon 
the Wednesday preceding the appointed day, with his worthy 
aid-de-camp,' Mr. Meiklewham ; and, after bestowing a few 
muttered curses upon the whole concern, and the fantastic old 
maid who had brought them into the scrape, by begging an 
invitation, declared that all things: might now go ‘to the devil 
their own way, for, so sure as his name was John Mowbray, he 
would trouble himself no more about them. 

Keeping this doughty resolution, he sat down to dinner with 
his counsel learned in the law; and speedily they despatched 
the dish of chops which was set before them, and the better 
part of the bottle of old port, which served for its menstruum. 

‘We are well enough now,” said Mowbray, * though we 
have had none of their d—d kickshaws.” 

“A wame-fow’ is a wame-fou’,” said the writer, swabbing his 
greasy chops, “ whether it be of the barleymeal or the bran.” 

‘“‘ A cart-horse thinks so,” said Mowbray ; “ but we must do 
as others do, and gentlemen and ladies are of a different 
opinion.” 

‘“The waur for themselves and the country baith, St. 
Ronan’s—it’s the jinketing and the jirbling wi’ tea and wi’ 
trumpery that brings our nobles to ninepence, and mony a het 
ha’-house to a hired lodging in the Abbey.” 

The young gentleman paused for a few minutes—filled a 
bumper, and pushed the bottle to the senior—then said abruptly, 
“Do you believe in luck, Mick ? ” 

‘In luck ?” answered the attorney ; “ what do you mean by 
the question ? ” 

‘“ Why, because I believe in luck myself—in'a good or bad 
run of luck at cards.” 

“You wad have mair luck the day, if you had never touched 
them,” replied his confidant. 

~“ That is not the question now,” said Mowbray ; “ but what 
I wonder at is the wretched chance that has attended us miserable 
Lairds of St. Ronan’s for more than a hundred years, that we 
have always been getting worse in the world, and never better, 
Never has there been such a backsliding generation, as the 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 99 


parson would say—half the country once belonged to my 
ancestors, and now the last furrows of it seem to be flying,” . 

-“ Fleeing !”’ said the writer, “ they are barking and fleeing 
baith— This Shaws Castle here, I’se warrant it flee up the 
chimney after the rest, were it not-weel fastened down with your 
grandfather’s tailzie.” 

*¢ D—n the tailzie !” said Mowbray ; “if they had meant to 
keep up their estate they should have entailed it when it was 
worth keeping: to tie a man down to such an_ insignificant 
thing as St. Ronan’s, is like tethering a horse on six roods of a 
Highland moor.” 

“Ye have broke weel in on the mailing by your feus down 
at the Well,” said Meiklewham, ‘ and raxed ower the tether 
maybe a wee bit further than ye had ony right to do.” 

“‘ It was by your advice, was it not?” said the Laird. 

“‘ |’se ne’er deny it, St. Ronan’s,’’ answered the writer ; ‘ but 
I am such a gude-natured guse, that I just set about pleasing 
you as an auld wife pleases a bairn.” 

“« Ay,” said the man of pleasure, “ when she reaches it a 
knife to cut its own fingers with.—These acres. would have 
been safe enough, if it had not been for your d—d advice.” 

“ And yet you were grumbling e’en now,” said the man of 
business, ‘“‘ that you have not the power to gar the whole estate 
flee like a wild-duck across a bog ?. Troth, you need care little 
about it ; for if you have incurred an irritancy—and sae thinks 
Mr. Wisebehind, the advocate, upon an A. B. memorial that I 
laid before him—your sister, or your sister’s goodman, if she 
should take the fancy to marry, might bring a declarator, and 
evict St. Ronans’ frae ye in the course of twa or three sessions,” 

“¢ My sister will never marry,’’ said John Mowbray. 

“‘ That’s easily said,” replied the writer; “‘ but as broken a 
ship’s come to land. If ony body kend o’ the chance she has 
o’ the estate, there’s mony a weel-doing man would think little 
of the bee in her bonnet.” 

“ Hark ye, Mr. Meiklewham,”’ said the Laird, ‘I will. te 
obliged to you if you will speak of Miss Mowbray with the 
respect due to her father’s daughter, and my sister.” 

* Nae offence, St Ronan’s, nae offence,”’ answered the man 
of law ; ‘‘ but ilka man maun speak sae as to be understood,— 
that is, when he speaks about business. Ye ken yoursell, that 
Miss Clara is no just like other folks ; and were I you—it’s my 
duty to speak plain—I wad e’en gie in a bit scroll of a petition 
to the Lords, to be appointed Curator Bonis, in respect of het 
incapacity to manage her own affairs,” 


100 SZ. RONAN’S WELL. 


“¢ Meiklewham,” said Mowbray, you are a 
stopped short. 

“ What am I, Mr. Mowbray?” said Meiklewham, somewhat 
sternly—“ What am I? I wad be glad to ken what I am.” 

“A very good lawyer, I dare say,” replied St. Ronan’s, who 
was too much in the power of his agent to give way to his first 
impulse. ‘‘ But I must tell you, that rather than take such a 
measure against poor Clara, as you recommend, I would give 
her up the estate, and become an ostler or a postilion for the 
rest of my life.” 

“Ah, St. Ronan’s,” said the man of law, ‘‘ if you had wished 
to keep up the auld house, you should have taken another 
trade, than to become an ostler or a postilion. What ailed 
you, man, but to have been a lawyer as weel as other folks ? 
My auld master had a wee bit Latin about rerum dominos 
gentemgue togatam, whilk signified, he said, that all lairds should 
be lawyers.”’ 

‘¢ All Jawyers are likely to become lairds, I think,’ replied 
Mowbray ; “ they purchase our acres by the thousand, and pay 
us, according to the old story, with a multiplepoinding, as your 
learned friends call it, Mr. Meiklewham.” 

‘“¢ Weel—and mightna you have purchased as weel as other 
folks >?” 

“Not I,” replied the Laird; “I have no turn for that ser- 
vice. I should only have wasted bombazine on my shoulders, 
and flour upon my three-tailed wig—should but have lounged 
away my mornings in the Outer House, and my evenings at the 
play-house, and acquired no more law than what would have 
made me a wise justice at a Small-debt Court.” 

“If you gained little, you would have lost as little,” said 
Meiklewham ; ‘‘ and albeit ye were nae great gun at the bar, 
ye might aye have gotten a Sheriffdom, or a Commissaryship, 
amang the lave, to keep the banes green; and sae ye might 
have saved your estate from deteriorating, if ye didna mend it 
muckle.” 

“Yes, but I could not have had the chance of doubling it, 
as I might have done,” answered Mowbray, ‘‘had that incon- 
stant jade, Fortune, but stood a moment faithful to me. I tell 
you, Mick, that I have been within this twelvemonth, worth a 
hundred thousand—worth fifty thousand—worth nothing, but 
the remnant of this wretched estate, which is too little to do 
one good while it is mine, though, were it sold, I could start 
again, and mend my hand a little.” 

“Ay, ay, just fling the helve after the hatchet,” said his 
legal adviser—“ that’s a’ you think of. What signifies winning 


” and then 


a hundred thousand pounds, if you win them to lose them a 


ST, RONAN’S WELL. IOI 
? 


again?” 

“What signifies it?” replied Mowbray. ‘“ Why, it signifies 
as much to a man of spirit, as having won a battle signifies to a 
general—no matter that he is beaten afterward in his turn, he 
knows there is luck for him as well as others, and so he has 
spirit to try it again. Here is the young Earl of Etherington 
will be amongst us in a day or two—they say he is up to every- 
thing—if I had but five hundred to begin with, I should be 
soon up to him.” | 

“Mr. Mowbray,” said Meiklewham, “I am sorry for ye. I 
have been your house’s man of business—I may say, in some 
measure your house’s servant—and now I am to see an end of 
it all, and just by the lad that I thought maist likely to set it 
up again better than ever; for, to do ye justice, you have aye 
had an ee to your ain interest, sae far as your lights gaed. It 
brings tears into my auld een.” 

“Never weep for the matter, Mick,” answered Mowbray ; 
“some of it will stick, my old boy, in your pockets, if not in 
mine—your service will not be altogether gratuitous, my old 
friend—the laborer is worthy of his hire.” 

“ Weel I wot is he,” said the writer; ‘ but double fees 
would hardly carry folk though some wark. But if ye will have 
siller, ye maun have siller—but, I warrant, it goes just where 
the rest gaed.” 

“No, by twenty devils !” exclaimed Mowbray, “to fail this 
time is impossible—Jack Wolverine was too strong for Ether- 
ington at anything he could name; and I can beat Wolverine 
from the Land’s-End to Johnnie Groat’s—but there must be 
something to go upon—the blunt must be had, Mick.” 

“Very likely—nae doubt—that is, always provided it caz be 
had,” answered the legal adviser. 

“That’s your business, my old cock,” said Mowbray. “ This 
youngster will be here perhaps to-morrow, with money in both 
pockets—he takes up his rents as he comes down, Mick—think 
of that, my old friend.” 

“Weel for them that’ have rents to take up,” said Meikle- 
whamn; “ours are lying rather ower low to be lifted at present. 
— But are you sure this Earl is a man to mell with ?—are you 
sure ye can win of him, and that if you do, he can pay his los- 
ings, Mr. Mowbray ?—because I have kend mony ane come for 
wool, and gang hame shorn; and though ye are a clever young 
gentleman, and Iam bound to suppose ye ken as much about 
life as most folk, and all that, yet some gate or other ye have 


“102 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


aye come off at the losing hand, as ye have ower much reason 
to ken this day—howbeit ” 

‘Oh, the devil take your gossip, my dear Mick! If you can 
give no help, spare drowning me with your pother. Why, man, 
I was a fresh hand—had my apprentice-fees to pay—and these 
are no trifles, Mick.—But what of that >—I am free of the com- 
pany now, and can trade on my own bottom.” 

‘¢ Aweel, aweel, I wish it may be sae,” said Meiklewham. 

“‘ Tt will be so, and it shall be so, my trusty friend,” replied 
-Mowbray, cheerily, ‘so you will but help me to the stock to 
trade with.” | 

“The stock ?—-what. d’ye ca’ the stock? I ken nae stock 
that ye have left.’ 


“But you have plenty, my old boy—Come, sell out a few of : 


your three per cents ; I will pay difference—interest—exchange 
—everything.” 

“‘ Ay, ay—everything or naething,’’ answered Meiklewham ; 
“but as you are sae very pressing, I hae been thinking—Whan 
is the siller wanted ?”’ 

“This instant—this day—to-morrow at furthest 
the proposed borrower. 

“Wh-——ew!” whistled the lawyer, with a long prolongation 
of the note ; ‘‘the thing is impossible.” 

“It must be, Mick, for all that,” answered Mr. Mowbray, 
who knew by experience that zmfosszb/e, when uttered by his 
accommodating friend in this tone, meant only, when interpreted, 
extremely difficult, and very expensive. 

“Then it must be by Miss Clara selling her stock, now that 
ye speak of stock,” said Meiklewham ; “I wonder ye didna 
think of this before.” 

‘T wish you had been dumb rather than that you had men- 
tioned it now,” said Mowbray, starting, as if stung by an adder 
—‘ What, Clara’s pittance !—the trifle my aunt left her for her 
own fanciful, expenses—her own little. private store, that she 
puts to so many good purposes—Poor Clara, that has so little! 
—And why not rather your own, Master Meiklewham, who call 
yourself the friend and servant of our family ?” 

‘“ Ay, St. Ronan’s,” answered Meiklewhan, ‘‘that is a very 
true—but service is nae inheritance; and as for friendship, it 
begins at hame, as wise folk have said lang before our time. 
And for that matter, I think they that are nearest sib should 
take maist risk... You are nearer and. dearer to your sister, St. 
Ronan’s, than you are to poor Saunders Meiklewham, that hasna 
sae muckle gentle blood as would supper up a hungry flea.” 

“J will not do this,” said St. Ronan’s walking up and down 


b) 


{?? 


exclaimed — 


oe 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 13 


- with much agitation; for, selfish as he was, he loved his sister, 
and loved her the more on account of those peculiarities which 
rendered his protection indispensable to her comfortable exist- 
ence—‘‘ I will not,” he said, “pillage her, come on’t what will. 
I will rather go a volunteer to the Continent, and die like a 
gentleman.” 

He continued to pace the room in a moody silence, which 
began to disturb his companion, who had not been hitherto 
accustomed to see his patron take matters so deeply. At 
length he made an attempt to attract the attention of the 
silent and sullen ponderer. 

“ Mr. Mowbray ”—no answer—“ I was saying, St. Ronan’s 
—still no reply. ‘Ihave been thinking about this matter— 
and ” 

“And what, sir?” said St. Ronan’s, stopping short, and 
speaking in a stern tone of voice. 

“ And to speak truth I see little feasibility in the matter ony 
way ; for if ye had the siller in your pocket to-day, it would be 
a’ in the Earl of Etherington’s the morn.” 

“Pshaw! you are a fool,” answered Mowbray. 

“ That is not unlikely,” said Meiklewham ; ‘but so is Sir 
Bingo Binks, and yet he’s had the better of you, St. Ronan’s, 
this twa or three times.” 

“It is false !—he has not,” answered St. Ronan’s fiercely. 

“Weel I wot,” resumed Meiklewham, “he took you in about 
the saumon fish, and some other wager ye lost.to him this very 
day.” 

-“T tell you once more, Meiklewham, you are a fool, and no 
more up to my trim than you are to the longitude—Bingo is 
got shy—lI must give him a little line, that is all—_then I shall 
strike him to purpose—I am as sure of him as I am of the 
other—I know the fly they will both rise to—this cursed want 
of five hundred will do me out of ten thousand !” 

“If you are So certain of being the bagster—so very certain 
I mean, of sweeping stakes,—what harm will Miss Clara come 
to by your having the use of her siller? You can make it up to 
her for the risk ten times told.” cit 

“And so Ican, by Heaven!” said St. Ronan’s. “ Mick, you 
are right, and I am a scrupulous, chicken-hearted fool., Clara 
shall have a thousand for her poor five hundred—she shall, 
by And I will carry her to Edinburgh for a season, ot 
perhaps to London, and we will have the best advice for her 
case, and the best company to divert her. And if they think 
hera little odd—why, d—n me, I am_ her brother, and will 
bear her through it, Yes—ycs—-you’re right; there can be ng 


104 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


hurt in borrowing five hundred of her for a few days, when such 
profit may be made on’t, both for her and me.—Here, fill the 
glasses, my old boy, and drink success to it, for you are right.” 

“‘ Here is success to it, with all my heart,” answered Meikle- 
wham, heartily glad to see his patron’s sanguine temper arrive 
at this desirable conclusion, and yet willing to hedge in his 
own credit; “but it is you are right, and not me, for I advise 
nothing, except on your assurances that you can make your ain 
of this English earl, and of this Sir Bingo—and if you can but 
do that, I am sure it would be unwise and unkind in ony ane 
of your friends to stand in your light.” 

“True, Mick, true,” answered Mowbray.—“ And yet dice 
and cards are but bones and pasteboard, and the best horse 
ever started may slip a shoulder before he get to the winning- 
post—and so I wish Clara’s venture had not been in such a 
bottom.—But, hang it, care killed a cat—I can hedge as well 
as any one, if the odds turn up against me—so let us have the 
cash, Mick.” 

‘“Aha! but there go two words to that bargain—the stock 
stands in my name, and Tam Turnpenny the banker’s, as 
trustees for Miss Clara—Now, get you her letter to us, desir- 
ing us to sell out and to pay you the proceeds, and Tam Turn- 
penny will let you have five hundred pounds zzstanter, on the 
faith of the transaction; for | fancy you would desire a’ the 
stock to be sold out, and it will produce more than six hun- 
dred, or seven hundred pounds either—and I reckon you will 
be selling out the whole—it’s needless making twa bites of a 
cherry.” 

‘* True,” answered Mowbray ;.“‘since we must be rogues, 
or something like it, let us make it worth our while at least; 
so give me a form of the letter, and Clara shall copy it—that 
is, lf she consents ; for you know she can keep her own opinion 
as well as any other woman in the world.” 

“And that,” said Meiklewham, ‘fis as the wind will keep 
its way, preach to us as you like. But if I might advise about 
Miss Clara—I wad say naething mair than that I was stressed 
for the penny money; for I mistake her muckle if she would 
like to see you ganging to pitch and toss wi’ this lord and 
tither baronet for her aunt’s three per cents—I ken she has 
some queer notions—she gives away the feck of the dividends 
on that very stock in downright charity.” 

‘And I am in hazard to rob the poor as well as my sister!” 
said Mowbray, filling once more his own glass and his friend’s. 
“Come, Mick, no skylights—here is Clara’s health—she is an 
angel—and I am—what I will not call myself, and suffer no 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 108 


other man to call me.—But I shall win this time—I am sure I 
shall; since Clara’s fortune depends upon it.” 

“Now, I think, on the other hand,” said Meiklewham, 
“that if anything should chance wrang (and Heaven kens that 
the best-laid schemes will gang ajee), it will be a great comfort 
to think that the ultimate losers will only be the poor folk, that 
have the parish between them and absolute starvation—if your 
sister spent her ain siller, it would be a very different story.” 

“Hush, Mick—for God’s sake, hush, mine honest friend,” 
said Mowbray; “it is quite true; thou art a rare counselor, in 
time of need, and hast as happy a manner of reconciling a 
man’s conscience with his necessities, as might set up a score 
of casuists ; but beware, my most zealous counselor and con- 
fessor, how you drive the nail too far—I promise you some of 
the chaffing you are at just now rather abates my pluck.—Well 
—give me your scroll—I will to Clara with it—though I would 
rather meet the best shot in Britain, with ten paces of green 
sod betwixt us.” So saying, he left the apartment. 


CHAPTER ELEVENTH, 


FRATERNAL LOVE. 


Nearest of blood should still be next in love ; 
_ And when I see these happy children playing, 
While William gathers flowers for Ellen’s ringlets, 
And Ellen dresses flies for William’s angle, 
I scarce can think, that in advancing life, 
Coldness, unkindness, interest, or suspicion, 
Will e’er divide that unity so sacred, 
Which Nature bound at birth. 
ANONYMOUS, 


WueEn Mowbray had left his dangerous adviser, in order to 
steer the course which his agent had indicated, without offering 
to recommend it, he went to the little parlor which his sister 
was wont to term her own, and in which she spent great part 
of her time. It was fitted up with a sort-of fanciful neatness ; 
and in its perfect arrangement and good order, formed a strong 
contrast to the other apartments of the old and _ neglected 
mansion-house. A number of little articles lay on the work- 
table, indicating the elegant, and, at the same time, the un- 
settled turn of the inhabitant’s mind, “There were unfinished 


106 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


drawings, blotted music, needle-work of various kinds, and 
many other little female tasks ; all undertaken with zeal, and 
so far prosecuted with art and elegance, but all flung aside 
before any one of them. was completed. 

Clara herself sat upon a little low couch by the window, 
reading, or at least turning over the leaves of a book, in which 
she seemed to read. But instantly starting up. when she saw 
her brother, she ran toward him with the most cordial cheer- 
fulness. 

“Welcome, welcome, my dear John ; this is very kind of 
you to come to visit to your recluse sister. I have been trying to 
nail my eyes and my understanding to a stupid book here, 
because they say too much thought is not quite good for me. 
But, either the man’s dulness, or my want of the power of 
attending, makes my eyes pass over the page, just as one seems 
to read in a dream, without being able to comprehend one word 
ofthe matter. You shall talk to me, and that will do better, 
What can I give you to show that you are welcome? Iam 
afraid’tea is all I have to offer, and that you set too little store 
ye 

a I shall be glad of a cup at present,” said Mowbray, “‘ for I 
wish to speak with you.” 

“Then Jessie shall made it ready instantly,” said Miss 
Mowbray, ringing; and giving orders to her waiting-maid— 
“ but you must not be ungrateful, John, and plague me with 
any of the ceremonial for your féte—‘ sufficient for the day is 
the evil thereof.’ I will attend, and play my part as prettily as 
you can desire, but to think of it beforehand, would make both 
my head and my heart ache ; and so I beg you will spare me 
on the subject.” | 

“ Why, you wild kitten,” said Mowbray, “ you turn every 
day more shy of human communication—we shall have you 
take the woods one day, and become as savage fas’the Princess 
Caraboo. But I will plague you about nothing if [ can help it. 
If matters go not smooth on the great day, they must e’en 
blame the dull thick head that had no fair lady to help him in 
his.need. But, Clara, I had something more material to say 
to you—something indeed of the last importance.” 

‘““ What is it?” said Clara, in a tone of voice approaching to 
a scream—‘ In the name of God, what is it? You know not 
how you terrify me ! ” Ht 

‘“‘ Nay, you start at a shadow, Clara,” answered her brother. 
“ Tt is no such uncommon matter neither—good faith, it is the 
most common distress in the w orld, so far as I know the world 
-—I am sorely pinched for money.” 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 107 


Ts that all ? ” replied Clara, in atone which seemed to her 
brother as much to underrate the difficulty, when it was 
explained, as her fears had exaggerated’it before she heard its 
nature. , 

“Ts that all? Indeed it is all, and comprehends a great 
deal of vexation. I shall be hard run unless I can get a cer- 
tain sum of money—and I must e’en ask you if you can help 
me?” 

“Help you ?” replied Clara; “ Yes, with all my heart—but 
you know my purse is a light one—more than half of my last 
dividend is in it, however, and I am sure, John, I shall be 
happy if it can serve you—especially as that will at least show 
that your wants are but small ones.” 

“* Alas, Clara, if you would help me,” said her brother, half 
repentant of his purpose, ‘‘ you must draw the neck of the goose 
which lays the golden eggs—you must lend me the whole 
stock.” 

‘“* And why not, John,” said the simple-hearted girl, ‘ if it 
will do youa kindness? Are you not my natural guardian ? 
Are you not a kind one? And is not my little fortune entirely 
at your disposal? You will, I am sure, do all for the best.” 

“‘T fear 1 may not,” said Mowbray, starting from her, and 
more distressed by her sudden and unsuspicious compliance, 
than he would have been by difficulties or remonstrance. In 
the latter case, he would have stifled the pangs of conscience 
amid the manceuvres which he must have resorted to for obtain- 
ing her acquiescence ; as matters stood, there was all the differ- 
ence between slaughtering a tame and unresisting animal, and 
pursuing wild game, until the animation of the sportsman’s 
exertions overcomes the internal sense of his owncruelty. The 
same idea occurred to Mowbray himself. 

“ By G—,” he said, “ this is like shooting the bird sitting, 
-~—Clara,” he added, “I fear this money will scarce be em- 
ployed as you would wish.” 

“Employ it as you yourself please, my dearest brother,” she 
replied, “‘ and I will believe it is all for the best.” 

*“* Nay, I am doing for the best,” he replied; “‘ at least, I am 
doing what must be done, for I see no other way through it— 
so all you have to do is to copy this paper, and bid adieu to 
bank dividends—for a little while at least. I trust soon to 
double this little matter for you, if Fortune will but stand my 
friend.” 

* Do not trust to Fortune, John,” said Clara, smiling, though 
with an expression of deep melancholy. ‘ Alas ! she has never 
been a friend to our family—not at least for many a day.” 


108 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


‘“‘ She favors the bold, say my old grammatical exercises,” 
answered her brother; “and I must trust her, were she as 
changeable as a weathercock.—And boa she should jilt me! 
—What will you do—what will you say, Clara, if I am unable, 
contrary to my hope, trust, and expectation, to repay you this 
money within a short time ?” 

“Do!” replied Clara; “I must do without it, you know; 
and for saying, I will not say a word.” 

“True,” replied Mowbray, “ but your little expenses—youz 
charities—your halt and blind—your round of paupers ?” 

“Well, I can manage all that too. Look you here, John, 
how many half-worked trifles there are. ‘The needle or the 
pencil is the resource of all distressed heroines, you know; and 
I promise you, though I have been a little idle and unsettled of 
late, yet, when I do set about it, no Emmeline or Etheline of 
them all ever sent such loads of trumpery to market as I shall, 
or made such wealth as I will do. Idare say Lady Penelope, 
and all the gentry at the Well, will purchase, and will raffle, 
and do all sorts of things to encourage the pensive performer. 
I will send them such lots of landscapes with sap-green trees, 
and mazareen-blue rivers, and portraits that will terrify the 
originals themselves — and handkerchiefs and turbans, with 
needle-work scalloped exactly like the walks on the Belvidere 
—Why, I shall become a little fortune in the first season.’ 

“No, Clara,” said John, gravely, for a virtuous resolution 
had gained the upper hand in his bosom, while his sister ran on 
in this manner.—‘‘ We will do something better than all this. 
If this kind help of yours does not fetch me through, I am deter- 
mined I will cut the whole concern. It is but standing a laugh 
or two, and hearing a gay fellow say, Dammie, Jack, are you 
turned clodhopper at last !—that is the worst. Dogs, horses, 
and all, shall go to the hammer; we will keep nothing but your 
pony, and I will trust to.a pair of excellent legs. There is 
enough left of the old acres to keep us in the way you like best 
and that I will learn to like. Iwill work in the garden, and 
work in the forest, mark my own trees, and cut them myself, 
keep my own accounts, and send Saunders Meiklewham to the 
devil.” 

“That last is the best resolution of all, John,” said Clara; 
“and if such a day should come round, I should be the happiest 
of living creatures—I should not have a grief left in the world 
—if I had, you should never see or hear of it--it should lie 
here,” she said, pressing her hand on Ler bosom, ‘ buried as 
deep as a funeral urn in a cold sepulchre, Oh! could we not 
begin such a life to-morrow? If it is absolutely necessary that 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 10g 


this trifle of money should be got rid of first, throw it into the 
river, and think you have lost it amongst gamblers and horse- 
jockeys.” 

Clara’s eyes, which she fondly fixed on her brother’s face, 
glowed through the tears which her enthusiasm called into 
them, while she thus addressed him. Mowbray, on his part, 
kept his looks fixed on the ground, with a flush on his cheek, 
that expressed at once false pride and real shame. 

At length he looked up :—“ My dear girl,” he said, “ how 
foolishly you talk, and how foolishly I, that have twenty things 
to do, stand here listening to you! All will go smooth on my 
plan—if it should not, we have yours in reserve, and I swear 
to you I will adopt it. The trifle which this letter of yours 
enables me to command, may have luck in it, and we must not 
throw up the cards while we have a chance of the game—were 
I to cut from this moment these few hundreds would make us 
little better or little worse—So you see we have two strings to 
our bow. Luck is sometimes against me, that is true—but 
upon true principle, and playing on the square, I can manage 
the best of them, or my name is not Mowbray. Adieu, my 
dearest Clara.” So saying, he kissed her cheek with a more 
than usual degree of affection. 

Ere he could raise himself from his stooping posture, she 
threw her arm kindly over his neck, and said with a tone of the 
deepest interest, “ My dearest brother, your slightest wish has 
been, and ever shall be, a law to me—Oh! if you would but 
grant me one request in return !” 

“What is it, you silly girl?” said Mowbray, gently disen- 
gaging himself from her hold.—“ What is it you can have to 
ask that needs such a solemn preface >—Remember, I hate 
prefaces; and when I happen to open a book, always skip 
them.” 

“Without preface, then, my dearest brother, will you, for 
my sake, avoid those quarrels in which the people yonder are 
eternally engaged? Inever go down there but I hear of some 
new brawl; and I never lay my head down to sleep, but I 
dream that you are the victim of it. Even last night ”—— 

“Nay, Clara, if you begin to tell your dreams, we shall 
never have done. Sleeping, to be sure, is the most serious 
employment of your life—for as to eating, you hardly match a 
sparrow ; but I entreat you to sleep without dreaming, or to 
keep your visions to yourself.—Why do you keep such fast hold 
of me ?—What on earth can you be afraid of ?—Surely you do 
not think of the blockhead Binks, or any other of the good 
folks below yonder, dared to turn on me? Egad, I wish they 


110 “ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


would pluck up a little mettle, that I might have an excuse for 
drilling them. Gad, I would soon teach them to follow at 
heel.” 

‘““ No, John,” replied his sister; “it is not of such men as 
these that I have any fear—-and yet, cowards are sometimes 
driven to desperation, and become more dangerous than better 
men—but it is not such as these that I fear. But there are 
men in the world whose qualities are beyond their seeming— 
whose spirit. and courage lie hidden, like metals in the mine, 
under an unmarked or a plain exterior.—You may meet with 
such—you are rash and headlong; and apt to exercise your wit 
without always weighing consequences, and thus”’ 

“On my word, Clara,” answered Mowbray, “you are ina 
most sermonizing humor this morning! the parson himself 
could not have been more logical or profound. You have only 
to divide your discourse into heads, and garnish it with con- 
clusions for use, and conclusions for doctrine, and it might be 
preached before a whole presbytery, with every chance of in- 
struction and edification. But I ama man of the world, my 
little Clara; and though I wish to go in death’s way as little as 
possible, I must not fear the raw head and bloody bones 
neither.—And who the devil is to put the question to me ?—I 
must know that, Clara, for you have some especial person in 
your eye when you bid me take care of quarreling.” 

Clara could not become paler than was her usual com- 
plexion; but her voice faltered as she eagerly assured her 
brother, that she had.no particular person in her thoughts. 

‘Clara,’ said her brother, ‘‘do you remember, when there 
was a report of a bogle * in the upper orchard, when we were 
both children.—Do you remember how you were perpetually 
telling me to take care of the bogle, and keep away from its 
haunts ?—And do you remember my going on purpose to detect © 
the bogle, finding the cow-boy, with a shirt about him, busied 
in pulling pears, and treating him to a handsome drubbing ?— 
Iam the same Jack Mowbray still, as ready to face danger, 
and unmask imposition; and your fears, Clara, will only make 
me watch more closely, till I find out the real object of them, 
If you warn me of quarreling with some one, it must be be- 
cause you know some one who is not unlikely to quarrel with 
me. You area flighty and fanciful girl, but you have sense 
enough not to trouble either yourself or me on a point of honor, 
save when there is some good reason for it.” 

Clara once more protested, and it was with the deepest 


* Bogle—in English, Goblin, 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. Irl 


anxiety to be believed, that what she had said arose only out of 
the general consequences which she apprehended from the line 
of conduct her brother had adopted, and which, in her appre- 
hension, was so likely to engage him in the broils that divided 
the good company at the spring. Mowbray listened to her 
explanation with an air of doubt, or rather incredulity, sipped 
a cup of tea which had for some time been placed before him; 
and at length replied, ‘Well, Clara, whether I am right or 
wrong in my guess, it would be cruel to torment you any more, 
remembering what you have just done forme. But do justice 
to your brother, and believe, that when you have anything to 
ask of him, an explicit declaration of your wishes will answer 
your purpose much better than any ingenious oblique attempts 
to influence me. Give up all thoughts of such, my dear Clara 
—you are but a poor manceuverer, but were you the very 
Machiavel of your sex, you should not turn the flank of John 
Mowbray.” | 
He left the room as he spoke, and did not return, though 
his sister twice called upon him. It is true that she uttered 
the word brother so faintly, that perhaps the sound did not 
reach his ears.—‘‘ He is gone,” she said, “‘and I have had no 
power to speak out! I am like the wretched creatures, who, it 
is said, lie under a potent charm, that prevents them alike from 
shedding tears and from confessing their crimes—Yes, there is 
a spell on this unhappy heart, and. either that must be dlis- 
solved, or this must break.” 


CHAPTER TWELFTH. 


THE CHALLENGE, 


A slight note I have about me, for the delivery of which you must excuse me. 
It is an office which friendship calls upon me to do, and no way offen- 
sive to you, as I desire nothing but right on both sides. 

KING AND NO KING. 


THE intelligent reader may recollect that Tyrrel departed 
from the Fox Hotel on terms not altogether so friendly toward 
the company as those under which he entered it. Indeed, it oc- 
curred to him, that he might probably have heard something 
further on the subject, though, amidst matters of deeper and 
more anxious consideration, the idea only passed hastily through 
his mind; and two days having gone over without any message 


112 ST. RONAN 'S, WEEL. 


from Sir Bingo Binks, the whole affair glided entirely out of his 
memory. 

The truth was, that although never old woman took more 
trouble to collect and blow up with her bellows the embers of 
her decayed fire, than Captain MacTurk kindly underwent for 
the purpose of puffing into a flame the dying sparkles of the 
Baronet’s courage, yet two days were spent in fruitless confer- 
ences before he could attain the desired point. He found Sir 
Bingo on these different occasions in all sorts of different moods 
of mind, and disposed to view the thing in all shades of light, 
except what the Captain thought was the true one.—He was 
in a drunken humor—in a sullen humor—in a thoughtless 
and vilipending humor—in every humor but a fighting one. 
And when Captain MacTurk talked of the reputation of the 
company at the Well, Sir Bingo pretended to take offence, said 
the company might go to the devil, and hinted that he “ did 
them sufficient honor by gracing them with his countenance, 
but did not mean to constitute them any judges of his affairs, 
The fellow was a raff, and he would have nothing to do with 
him.” : 

Captain MacTurk would willingly have taken measures against 
the Baronet himself, asin a state of contumacy, but was opposed 
by Winterblossom and other members of the committee, who 
considered Sir Bingo as too important and illustrious a member 
of their society to be rashly expelled from a place not honored 
by the residence of many persons of rank; and finally insisted 
that nothing should be done in the matter without the advice of 
Mowbray, whose preparations for his solemn festival on the 
following Thursday had so much occupied him, that he had not 
lately appeared at the Well. 

In the meanwhile, the gallant Captain seemed to experience 
as much distress of mind, as if some stain had lain on his own 
most unblemished of reputations. He went up and down upon 
the points of his toes, rising up on his instep with a jerk which 
at once expressed vexation and defiance—He carried his nose 
turned up in the air, like that of a pig when he snuffs the 
approaching storm—He spoke in monosyllables when he spoke 
at all ; and—what perhaps illustrated in the strongest manner 
the depth of his feelings—he refused, in face of the whole com- 
pany, to pledge Sir Bingo in a glass of the Baronet’s peculiar 
cognac. 

At length, the whole Well was alarmed by the report brought 
by a smart outrider, that the young Earl of Etherington, re- 
ported to be rising on the horizon of fashion as a star of the 
first magnitude, intended to pass an hour, or a day or a week, 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 113 


as it might happen (for his lordship could not be supposed to 
know his own mind), at St. Ronan’s Well. 

This suddenly put all in motion. Almanacs were opened 
to ascertain his lordship’s age, inquiries were made concerning 
the extent of his fortune, his habits*were quoted, his tastes were 
guessed at, and all that the ingenuity of the Managing Com- 
mittee could devise was resorted to, in order to recommend their 
Spa to this favorite of fortune. An express was despatched to 
Shaws Castle with the agreeable intelligence which fired the 
train of hope that led to Mowbray’s appropriation of his sister’s 
capital. He did not, however, think proper to obey the sum- 
mons to the Spring; for, not being aware in what light the 
Earl might regard the worthies there assembled, he did not 
desire to be found by his lordship in any strict connection with 
them. 

Sir Bingo Binks was ina different situation. The bravery 
with which he had endured the censure of the place began to 
give way, when he considered that a person of such distinction 
as that which public opinion attached to Lord Etherington, 
should find him bodily indeed at St. Ronan’s, but, so far as 
society was concerned, on the road toward the ancient city of 
Coventry; and his banishment thither, incurred by that most 
unpardonable offence in modern morality, a solecism in the code 
of honor. Though sluggish and inert when called to action, 
the Baronet was by no means an absolute coward; or, if so, he 
was of that class which fights when reduced to extremity. He 
manfully sent for Captain McTurk, who waited upon him with 
a grave solemnity of aspect, which instantly was exchanged for 
a radiant joy, when Sir Bingo, in few words, empowered him to 
carry a message to that d—d strolling artist, by whom he had 
been insulted three days since. 

“ By Cot,’ said the Captain, “my exceeding goot and 
excellent friend, and I am happy to do such a favor for you! 
and it’s well you have thought of it yourself ; because, if it had 
not been for some of our very goot and excellent friends, that 
would be putting their spoon into another folk’s dish, I should 
have been asking you a civil question myself, how you came to 
dine with us, with all that mud and mire which Mr. Tyrrel’s 
grasp has left upon the collar of your coat—you understand me. 
—But it is much better as it is, and I will go to the man with 
all the speed of light; and though, to be sure, it should have 
been sooner thought of, yet let me alone to make an excuse for 
that, just in my own civil way—better late thrive than never 
do well, you know, Sir Bingo; and if you have made him wait 


TI4 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


a little while for his morning, you must give him the better 
measure, my darling.” 

So saying, he awaited no reply, lest peradventure the com- 
mission with which he was so hastily and unexpectedly charged, 
should have been clogged With some condition of compromise. 
No such proposal, however, was made on the part of the doughty 
Sir Bingo, who eyed his friend, as he hastily snatched up his’ 
_ratan to depart, with a dogged look of obstinacy, expressive, to 
use his own phrase, of a determined resolution to come up to 
the scratch; and when he heard the Captain’s parting footsteps, 
and saw the door shut behind him, he valiantly whistled a few 
bars of Jenny Sutton, in token he cared not a farthing how the 
matter was to end. ; 

With a swifter pace than his half-pay leisure usually 
encouraged, or than his habitual dignity permitted, Captain 
MacTurk cleared the ground betwixt the Spring and its, gay 
vicinity, and the ruins of the Aultoun, where reigned our friend 
Meg Dods, the sole assertor of its ancient dignities. To the 
door of the Cleikum Inn the Captain addressed himself as one 
too much accustomed to war to fear a rough reception; al- 
though at the very first aspect of Meg, who presented her person 
at the half-opened door, his military experience taught him 
that his entrance into the place would, in all probability, be 
disputed. 

‘Is Mr. Tyrrel at home?” was the question ; and the answer 
was conveyed by the counter-interrogation, “Wha may ye be 
that speers ?” 

As the most polite reply to this question, and an indulgence, 
at the same time, of his own taciturn disposition, the Captain 
presented to Luckie Dods the fifth part of an ordinary playing 
card, much grimed with snuff, which bore on its blank side his 
name and quality. But Luckie Dods rejected the information 
thus tendered, with contemptuous scorn. 

‘““Nane of your deil’s play-books for me,” said she; “it’s an 
ill world since sic prick-my-dainty doings came in fashion—It’s 
a poor tongue that canna tell its ain name, and J’ll hae nane of 
your scarts upon pasteboard.” 

“Tam Captain MacTurk of the 
Captain, distaining further answer. 

‘““MacTurk?” repeated Meg, with an emphasis which in- 
duced the owner of the name to reply, 

‘Ves, honest woman—MacTurk—Hector MacTurk—have 
you any objections to my name, good wife ?” 

‘Nae objections have I,” answered Meg; “its e’en an ex 
cellent name for a heathen.—But, Captain MacTurk, since sa¢ 


regiment,” said: the 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 118 


it be that ye are a captain, ye may e’en face about and march 
your ways hame again, to the tune of Dumbarton drums ; for 
ye are ganging to have nae speech of Maister Tirl, or ony lodger 
of mine.” 

_“ And wherefore not ?”’ demanded the veteran; ‘and is this 

of ‘your own foolish head, honest woman, or has your lodger 
left such orders ?” 
_ “Maybe he has and maybe no,” answered Meg, sturdily : 
‘and I ken nae mair right that ye suld ca’ me honest woman, 
than I have to ca’ you honest man, whilk is as far frae my 
thoughts as it wad be from Heayen’s truth.” 

“The woman is deleerit!” said Captain McTurk ; “but 
-coom, coom—a gentleman is not to. be misused in this way 
when he comes on a gentleman’s business; so make you a bit | 
room on the doorstane, that I may pass by you, or I will make 
room for myself, by Cot, to your small pleasure.” 

And so saying, he assumed the air of a man who was about 
to make good his passage.- But Meg, without deigning further 
reply, flourished around ‘her head the hearth-broom, which she 
had been employing to its more legitimate purpose, when dis- 
turbed in her housewifery by Captain McTurk. 

“I ken your errand weel eneugh, Captain—and I ken yer- 
sell. Ye are ane of the folk that gang about yonder setting 
folks by the lugs, as callants set their collies to fight. But ye 
sall come to nae lodgero’ mine, let a-be Maister Tirl, wi’ ony 
sic ungodly errand; for I am ane that will keep God’s peace 
and the King’s within my dwelling.” 

So saying, and in explicit token of her peaceable intentions, 
she again flourished her broom. 

‘The veteran instinctively threw himself under Saint George’s 
guard, and drew two paces back, exclaiming, “That the woman 
was either mad, or.as, drunk as whisky could make her;” an 
alternative which afforded Meg so httle satisfaction, that she 
- fairly rushed on her-retiring adversary, and began to use her 
weapon to fell purpose. | | | 

_ “Me drunk, ye scandalous blackguard!” (a blow with the 
broom interposed as parenthesis), “‘me, that am fasting from all] 
but sin and bohea!” (another whack). 

The Captain, swearing, exclaiming, parrying, caught..the 
blows as they fell, showing much dexterity in single stick. The 
people began to gather; and how long his gallantry might have 
maintained itself against the spirit of self-defence and revenge 
must be: left uncertain, for the arrival of Tyrrel, returned from 
a short walk, put.a period to the contest. 

Meg, who had a great respect for her guest, began to feel 


116 ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


ashamed of her own violence, and slunk into the house; ob 
serving, however, that she trowed she had made her hearth- 
broom and the auld heathen’s pow right weel acquainted. The 
tranquility which ensued upon her departure gave Tyrrel an 
opportunity to ask the Captain, whom he at length recognized, 
the meaning of this singular affray, and whether the visit was 
intended for him; to which the veteran replied, very discom- 
posedly, that “‘he should have known that long enough ago, if 
he had had decent people to open his door, and answer a civil 
question, instead of a flyting madwoman, who was worse than 
an eagle,” he said, ‘or a mastiff-bitch, or a she-bear, or any 
other female beast in the creation.” 

Half-suspecting his errand, and desirous to avoid unneces- 
sary notoriety, Tyrrel, as he showed the Captain to the parlor 
which he called his own, entreated him to excuse the rudeness 
of his landlady, and to pass from the topic to that which had 
procured him the honor of this visit. 

“And you are right, my good Master Tyrrel,” said the 
Captain, pulling down the sleeves of his coat, adjusting his 
handkerchief and breast-ruffle, and endeavoring to recover the 
composure of manner becoming his mission, but still adverting 
indignantly to the usage he had received—*“ By , if she 
kad but been a man, if it were the King himself{—However, 
Mr. Tyrrel, I am come on a civil errand—and very civilly I 
have been treated—-the auld bitch should be set in the stocks, 
and be tamned !—My friend, Sir Bingo—By , | shall never 
forget that woman’s insolence—if there be a constable or a 
cat-o’-nine-tails within ten miles” 

“‘T perceive, Captain,” said Tyrrel, “ that you are too much 
disturbed at this moment to enter upon the business which has 
brought you here—if you will step into my bedroom, and make 
use of some cold water and a towel, it will give you the time to 
compose yourself a little.” 

‘“*T shall do no such thing, Mr. Tyrrel,” answered the Cap- - 
tain, snappishly; ‘I do not want to be composed at all, and I 
do not want to stay in this house a minute longer than to do 
my errand to you on my friend’s behalf—And as for this tamned 
woman, Dods” 

“You will in that case forgive my interrupting you, Captain 
MacTurk, as I presume your errand to me can have no refer 
ence to this strange quarrel with my landlady, with which 3 
have nothing to”’ 

“And if. I thought that it had, sir,” said the Captain, inter 
rupting Tyrrel in his turn, ‘you should have given me satis: 
faction before’ you was a quarter of an hour older—Oh, | 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 117 


would give five pounds to the pretty fellow that would say, 
Captain MacTurk, the woman did right !” 

“‘T certainly will not be that person you wish for, Captain,” 
replied Tyrrel, “because I really do not know who was in the 
right or wrong; but I am certainly sorry that you should have 
met with ill usage, when your purpose was to visit me.” 

“ Well, sir, if you ate concerned,” said the man of peace, 
snappishly, “so am I, and there is an end of it——And touch- 
ing my errand to you—you cannot have forgotten that you 
treated my friend, Sir Bingo Binks, with singular incivility ?” 

“T recollect nothing of the kind, Captain,” replied Tyrrel. 
*« | remember that the gentleman, so called, took some uncivil 
liberties in laying foolish bets concerning me, and that I 
treated him, from respect to the rest of the company, and the 
ladies in particular, with a great degree of moderation and 
forbearance.” 

“And you must have very fine ideas of forbearance,” re- 
plied the Captain, ““when you took my good friend by the 
collar of the coat, and lifted him out of your way, as if he had 
been a puppy dog! My good Mr. Tyrrel, I can assure you he 
does not think that you have forborne him at all, and he has 
r:9 purpose to forbear you; and I must either carry back a suffi- 
cient apology, or you. must meet in a quiet way, with a good 
friend on each side.—And this was the errand I came on, when 
this tamned woman, with the hearth-broom, who is an enemy 
to all quiet and peaceable proceedings ”’ 

“We will forget Mrs. Dods for the present, if you please, 
Captain. MacTurk,” said Tyrrel—“ and, to speak to the present 
subject, you will permit me to say, that I think this summons 
comes a little of the latest. You know best as a military man, 
but I have-always understood that such differences are usually 
settled immediately after they occur—not that I intend to 
baulk Sir Bingo’ s inclinations upon the score of delay, or any 

other account.’ 

“T dare say you will not—I dare say you will not, Mr. 
Tyrrel,” answered the Captain—‘ I am free to think that you 
‘know better what belongs to a gentleman.—And as to time— 
look you, my good sir, there are different sorts of people in this 
world, as there are different sorts of firearms. ‘There are your 
hair-trigger’d rifles, that go off just at the right moment, and 
in the twinkling of an eye, and that, Mr. Tyrrel, 1s your true 
man of honor and there is a sort of person that takes a 
thing up too soon, and sometimes backs out of -it, like your 
rubbishy Birmingham pieces, that will at one time go off at 
half-cock, and at another time burn priming without going off 


118 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


at all;—then again there are pieces that hang fire--or I should 
rather say, that are like the matchlocks which the black fellows 
use in the East Indies—there must be some blowing of the 
match, and so forth, which occasions delay, but the piece carries 
true enough after all.” 

And your friend Sir Bingo’s valor is of this last kind, 
Captain—I presume that is “the inference. I should have 
thought it more like a boy’s cannon, which is fired by means of 
a train, and is but a pop-gun after all.” 

“I cannot allow of such comparisons, sir,” said the Cap- 
tain; “you will understand that I come here as Sir Bingo’s 
friend, and a reflection on him will be an affront to me.” 

“ T disclaim all intended offence to you, Captain—lI have 
no wish to extend the number of my adversaries, or to add to 
them the name of a gallant officer like yourself,” replied Tyrrel. 

“You are too obliging, sir,” said the Captain, drawing him- 
self up with dignity. nes By , and that was said very hand- 
somely !—Well, sir, and shall I not have the pleasure of carry- 
ing back any explanation from you to Sir Bingo ?—I assure 
you it would give me pleasure to make this matter hand- 
somely up.” 

“To Sir Bingo, Captain MacTurk, I have no apology to 
offer—I think I treated him more gently than his impertinence 
deserved.” 

“Och, och!” sighed the Captain, with a strong Highland 
intonation ; ‘then there is no more to be said, but just to 
settle time and place; for pistols, I suppose, must be the 
weapons.” 

“‘ All these matters are quite the same to. me,” said Tyrrel ; 
“ only, in respect of time, I should wish it to be as speedy as 
possible—What say you to one, afternoon, this very day—You 
may name the place.” 

“At. one, afternoon,” replied the Captain, deliberately, 
“Sir Bingo will attend you—the place may be the Buck-stane ; 
for as the whole company go to the water-side to-day to eat a 
kettle of fish,* there will be no. risk of interruption.—And 
whom shall I speak to, my good friend, on your. side of the 
quarrel !”’ 

“Really, Captain,” replied Tyrrel, ‘that isa puzzling 
question—I have no friend here—I suppose you could hardly 
act for both?” 

“Tt would be totally, absolutely, and altogether out of the 
question, my good friend,” replied MacTurk. “ But if you will 


39 


Note D. Kettle of fish, 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 11g 


trust to me, I will bring up a friend on your part from the 
Well, who, though you have hardly seen him before, will settle 
matters for you as well as if you had been intimate for twenty 
years—and I will bring up the Doctor too, if I can get him 
unloosed from the petticoat of that fat widow Blower, that he 
has strung himself upon.” 

““T have no doubt you will do everything with perfect 
accuracy, Captain. At one o’clock, then, we meet at the Buck- 
stane—Stay, permit me to see you to the door.” 

“ By , and it is not altogether so unnecessary,” said the 
Captain ; * for the tamned woman with the besom might have 
some advantage in that long dark passage, knowing the ground 
better than I do—tamn her, I will have amends on her, if 
there be whipping-post, or ducking-stool, or a pair of stocks in 
the parish!” And so saying, the Captain trudged off, his 
spirits ever and anon agitated by recollection of the causeless 
ageression of Meg Dods, and again composed to a state of 
happy serenity by the recoliection of the agreeable arrangement 
which he had made between Mr. Tyrrel and his friend Sir Bingo 
Binks. 

We have heard of men of undoubted benevolence of character 
and disposition, whose principal delight was to see a miserable 
criminal, degraded alike by his previous crimes, and the sentence 
which he had incurred, conclude a vicious and wretched life, by 
an ignominious and painful death. It was some such incon- 
sistency of character which induced honest Captain MacTurk, 
who had really been a meritorious officer, and was a good- 
natured, honorable, and well-intentioned man, to place his 
chief delight in setting his friends by the ears, and then acting 
as umpire in the dangerous rencontres, which, according to his 
code of honor, were absolutely necessary to restore peace and 
cordiality. We leave the explanation of such anomalies to the 
iabors of craniologists, for they seem to defy all the researches 
of the Ethic philosopher. 


$20 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


‘ 


Evans.—I pray you now, good Master Slender’s serving-man, and friend 
Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius ? 
Slender.—Marry, Sir, the City-ward, the Park-ward, every way; Old 
Windsor way, and every way. . 

. MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 


Str Brnco Binks received the Captain’s communication with 
the same dogged sullenness he had displayed at sending the 
challenge ; a most ungracious hump, ascending, as it were, 
from the very bottom of his stomach, through the folds of a Bel- 
cher handkerchief, intimating his acquiescence, in a tone nearly 
as gracious as that with which the drowsy traveler acknowl- 
edges the intimation of the slip-shod ostler, that it is on the 
stroke of five, and the horn will sound in a minute. Captain 
MacTurk by no means considered this ejaculation as expressing 
a proper estimate of his own trouble and services. “ Humph'!”’ 
he replied; ‘‘ and what does that mean, Sir Bingo? Have not 
I here had the trouble to put you just into the neat road ; and 
would you have been able to make a handsome affair out of it 
at all, after you had let it hang so long in the wind, if I had not 
taken on myself to make it agreeable to the gentleman, and 
cooked as neat a mess out of it as I have seen a Frenchman 
do out of a stale sprat?” 

Sir Bingo saw it was necessary to mutter some intimation 
of acquiescence and acknowledgment, which, however inartic- 
ulate, was sufficient to satisfy the veteran, to whom the adjust- 
ment of a personal affair of this kind was a labor of love, and 
who now, kindly mindful of his promise to Tyrrel, hurried 
away as if he had been about the most charitable action upon 
earth, to secure the attendance of some one as a witness on the 
stranger’s part. 

Mr. Winterblossom was the person whom MacTurk had in his 
own mind pitched upon as the fittest person to perform this act 
of benevolence, and he lost no time in communicating his wish 
to that worthy gentleman. But Mr. Winterblossom, though a 
man of the world, and well enough acquainted with such matters, 
was by no means so passionately addicted to them as was the 
man of peace, Captain Hector MacTurk. As a don vivant, he 
hated trouble of any kind, and the shrewd selfishness of his dis- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 121 


position enabled him to foresee that a good deal might accrue 
to all concerned in the course of this business. He therefore 
cooliy replied, that he knew nothing of Mr. Tyrrel—not even 
whether he was a gentleman or not; and, besides, he had re- 
ceived no regular application in his behalf—he did not, there- 
fore, feel himself at all inclined to go tothe field as his second. 
This refusal drove the poor Captain to despair. He conjured 
his friend to be more public-spirited, and entreated him to con- 
sider the reputation of the Well, which was to them as a com- 
mon country, and the honor of the company to which they 
both belonged, and of which Mr. Winterblossom was in a 
manner the proper representative, as being, with consent of all, 
the perpetual president. He reminded him how many quarrels 
had been nightly undertaken and departed from on the ensuing 
morning, without any suitable consequences—said, “that people 
began to talk of the place oddly; and that, for his own part, he 
found his own honor so nearly touched, that he had begun to 
think he himself would be obliged to bring an aaat or other 
to account for the general credit of the Well; and now, just 
when the most beautiful occasion had arisen to put everything 
on a handsome footing, it was hard—it was cruel—it was most 
unjustifiable—in Mr. Winterblossom to decline so simple a 
matter as was requested of him.” 

Dry and taciturn as the Captain was on all ordinary occasions 
he proved on the present, eloquent and almost pathetic; for the 
tears came into his eyes when he recounted the various quarrels 
which had become addled, notwithstanding his best endeavors 
to hatch them into an honorable meeting ; and here was one, 
at length, just chipping the shell, like to “be smothered for want 
of the most ordinary concession on the part of Winterblossom. 
In short, that gentleman could not hold out any longer. “It 
was,” he said, ‘ ‘a very foolish business, he thought ; but to 
oblige Sir Bingo and Captain MacTurk, he had no objection to 
walk with them about noon as far as the Buck-stane, although 
he must observe the day was hazy, and he had felt a prophetic 
twinge or two, which looked like a visit of his old acquaintance 
podagra.”’ 

““Never mind that, my excellent friend,” said the Captain, 
“a sup out of Sir Bingo’s flask is like enough to put that to 

rights; and, by my soul, it is not the thing he is like to leave 
behind him on this sort of occasion, unless I be far mistaken in 
my man.’ 

* But,” said Winterblossom, “ although I comply with your 
wishes thus far, Captain MacTurk, I by no means undertake for 
certain to back this same Master Tyrrel, of whom I know nothing 


122 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


at ail, but only agree to go to the place in hopes of preventing 
mischief.” | 

‘“‘Never fash your beard. about that, Mr. Winterblossom,” 
replied the Captain; ‘fora little mischief, as you call it, is 
become a thing absolutely necessary to the credit of the place ; 
and, I am sure, whatever be the consequences, they cannot in 
the present instance be very fatal to anybody; for here is a 
young fellow that, if he should have a misfortune, nobody will 
miss, for nobody knows him; then there is Sir Bingo, whom 
everybody knows so well, that they will miss him all the less.” 

“And there will be Lady Bingo, a wealthy and handsome 
young widow,” said Winterblossom, throwing his hat upon his 
head with the grace and pretension of former days, and sighing 
to see, as he looked in the mirror, how much time, that had 
whitened his hair, rounded his stomach, wrinkled his brow and 
bent down his shoulders, had disqualified him, ‘as he expressed 
it, “for entering for such a plate.” 

Secure of Winterblossom, the Captain’s next anxiety was 
to obtain the presence of Dr. Quackleben, who, although he 
wrote himself M.D., did not by any. means. decline practice as 
a surgeon when any job offered for, which he was, likely to be 
well paid, as was warranted in the present instance, the wealthy 
Baronet being a party principally concerned. The Doctor, 
therefore, like the eagle scenting the carnage, seized, at the first 
word, the huge volume of morroco leather which formed his 
case of portable instruments, and uncoiled before the Captain, 
with ostentatious display, its formidable and glittering contents, 
upon which he began to lecture as upon a copious and interest- 
ing text, until the man of war thought it necessary to give him 
a word of caution. 

“Och,” says he, “‘ I do pray you, Doctor, to carry that. packet 
of yours under the breast of your coat, or in your pocket, or 
somewhere out of sight, and by no means to produce or open 
it before the parties. For although scalpels, and tourniquets, 
and pincers, and the like, are very ingenious implements, and 
pretty to behold, and are also useful when time and. occasion 
call for them, yet I have known the sight of them take away a 
man’s fighting stomach, and so lose their owner a job, Dr. 
(Quackleben.”’ 

“By my faith, Captain MacTurk,” said the Doctor, “ you 
speak as if you were graduated !—I have known these treacher- 
ous articles play their master many a cursed trick. ‘The very 
sight of my forceps, without the least effort on my part, once 
cured an inveterate toothache of three days’ duration, pre- 
vented the extraction of a carious molendinar, which it was the 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 123 


very end of their formation to achieve, and sent me home 
minus a guinea.—But hand me that great-coat, Captain, and we 
will place the instruments in ambuscade until they are called 
into action in due time. I should think something will happen 
—Sir Bingo is a sure shot at a moor-cock.” 

“Cannot say,’ replicd MacTurk; “I have known. the 
pistol shake many a hand that held the fowling-piece fast 
enough. Yonder Tyrrel looks like a teevilish cool customer— 
I watched him the whole time I was delivering my errand, and 
I can promise you he is mettle to the back-bone.”’ 

“ Well—I will have my bandages ready secundum artem,” 
replied the man of medicine. “ We must guard against hamor- 
rhage—Sir Bingo is a plethoric subject.—One o’clock you say 
—at the Buck-stane—I will be punctual.” 

“ Will you not walk with us?” said Captain MacTurk, who 
seemed willing to keep his whole convoy together on this occa- 
sion, lest, peradventure, any of them had fled’ from under his 
patronage. 

‘** No,” replied the Doctor, “I must first make an apology 
to worthy Mrs. Blower, for I had promised her my arm down 
to the river-side, where they are all to eat a kettle of fish.” 

‘* By Cot, and I hope we shall make them a prettier kettle 
of fish than was ever seen at St. Ronan’s,” said the Captain, 
rubbing his hands. 

“Don’t say we, Captain,” replied the cautious Doctor; “I 
for one have nothing to do with the meeting—wash my hands 
of it. No, no, I cannot afford to be clapt up as accessory.— 
You ask me to meet you at the Buck-stane—no purpose 
assigned—I am willing to oblige my worthy friend, Captain 
MacTurk — walk that way, thinking of nothing particular— 
hear the report of pistols—hasten to the spot—fortunately just 
in time to prevent the most fatal consequences—chance most 
opportunely to have my case of instruments with me, indeed, 
generally walk with them about me—sunguam non paratus— 
then give my professional definition of the wound and state of 
the patient. That is the way to give evidence, Captain, before 
sheriffs, coroners, and such sort of folks—never commit one’s 
self—it is a rule of our profession.” 

“Well, well, Doctor,’ answered the Captain, ‘you know 
your own ways best ; and so you are but there to give a chance 
of help in case of accident, all the laws of honor will be fully 
complied with. But it would be a foul reflection upon me, as a 
man of honor, if I did not take care that there should be some- 
body to come in thirdsman between death and my principal.” 

At the awful hour of one, afternoon, there arrived upon the 


124 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


appointed spot Captain MacTurk, leading to the field the 
valorous Sir Bingo, not exactly straining like a grayhound in 
the slips, but rather looking moody like a butcher’s bull-dog, 
which knows he must fight since his master bids him, Yet the 
Baronet showed no outward flinching or abatement of courage, 
excepting that the tune of Jenny Sutton, which he had whistled 
without intermission since he left the Iiotel, had, during the 
last half-mile of their walk, sunk into silence; although, to look 
at the muscles of the mouth, projection of the lip, and vacancy 
of the eye, it seemed as if the notes were still passing through 
his mind, and that he whistled Jenny Sutton in his imagina- 
tion. Mr. Winterblossom came two minutes after this happy 
pair, and the Doctor was equally punctual. 

“Upon my soul,” said the former, “this is a mighty silly 
affair, Sir Bingo, and might, I think, be easily taken up, at less 
risk to all parties than a meeting of this kind. You should 
recollect, Sir Bingo, that you have much depending on your 
life—you are a married man, Sir Bingo.” 

Sir Bingo turned the quid in his mouth, and squirted out 
the juice in a most coachman-like manner. 

‘““Mr. Winterblossom,”’ said the Captain, “ Sir Bingo has in 
this matter put himself in my hands, and unless you think your- 
self more able to direct his course than I am, I must frankly tell 
you, that I will be disobliged by your interference. You may 
speak to your own friend as much as you please ; and if you find 
yourself authorized to make any proposal, I shall be desirous to 
lend an ear to it on the part of my worthy principal, Sir Bingo. 
But I will be plain with you, that I do not greatly approve of 
settlements upon the field, though I hope I am a quiet and 
peaceable man; yet here is our honor to be looked after in the 
first place ; and moreover, I must insist that every proposal for 
accommodation shall originate with your party or yourself.” 

‘« My party ?”’ answered Winterblossom ; “ why really, though 
I came hither at your request, Captain MacTurk, yet I must see 
more of the matter, ere 1 can fairly pronounce myself second to 
a man I never saw but once.” 

“ And, perhaps, may never see again,”’ said the Doctor, look- 
ing at his watch; “for it is ten minutes past the hour, and here 
is no Mr, Tyrrel.” 

“Hey! what’s that you say, Doctor?” said the Baronet, 
awakened from his apathy. 

“He speaks tamned nonsense,” said the Captain, pulling 
out a huge, old-fashioned, turnip-shaped implement, witha black- 
ened silver dial-plate. ‘It is not above three minutes after one 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 128 


by the true time, and I will uphold Mr, Tyrrel to be a man of 
his word—never saw a man take a thing more coolly,” 

** Not more coolly than he takes his walk this way,” said the 
Doctor; “ for the hour is as I tell you—remember, I am profes- 
sional—have pulses to count by the second and _ half-second— 
my timepiece must go as true as the sun.” 

‘And I have mounted guard a thousand times by my watch,” 
said the Captain; “ and I defy the devil to say that Hector 
MacTurk did not always discharge his duty to the twentieth 
part of the fraction of a second—it was my great grandmother, 
Lady Killbracklin’s, and I will maintain its reputation against 
any timepiece that ever went upon wheels.” 

** Well then, look at your own watch, Captain,” said Winter- 
blossom, “for time stands still with no man, and while we 
speak the hour advances. Onmy word, I think this Mr. Tyrrel 
intends to humbug us.” 

“Hey! what’s that you say?” said Sir Bingo, once more 
starting from his sullen reverie. 

“*T shall not look at my watch upon no such matter,” said 
the Captain; “‘nor will I any way be disposed to doubt your 
friend’s honor, Mr. Winterblossom,” 

“ My friend?” said Mr. Winterblossom ; “I must tell you 
once more, Captain, that this Mr. Tyrrel is no friend of mine 
——none in the world. He is your friend, Captain MacTurk ; 
and I own, if he keeps us waiting much longer on this occa- 
sion, I will be apt to consider his friendship. as of very little 
value.” 

‘* And how dare you then say that the man is my friend ? ” 
said the Captain, knitting his brows in a most formidable 
manner. 

“ Pooh! pooh! Captain,” answered Winterblossom, coolly, 
if not contemptuously—‘“ keep all that for silly boys; I have 
lived in the world too long either to provoke quarrels, or to 
care about them. So, reserve your fire; it is all thrown away 
on such an old cock as Iam. But I really wish we knew 
whether this fellow means to come—twenty minutes: past the 
hour—I think it is odds that you are bilked, Sir Bingo?” 

“ Bilked! hey!” cried Sir Bingo; “by. Gad, I always 
thought so—I wagered with Mowbray he was araff—I am had, 
by Gad. I’ll wait no longer than the half-hour, by Gad, were he 
a field marshal.” 

“ You will be directed in that matter by your friend, if you 
please, Sir Bingo,” said the Captain. 

“D—n me if I will,” returned the Baronet—“ Friend ; a 
pretty friend, to bring -me out here on such a fool’s errand! I 


126 ST RONAN S WELL, 


knew the fellow was a raff—but never thought you, with all your 
chaff about honor, such a d—d spoon as to bring amessage from 
a fellow who has fled the pit!” 

“Tf you regret so much having come here to no purpose,” 
said the Captain, in a very lofty tone, “and if you think I have 
used you like a spoon, as you say, I will have no objection 
in life to take Mr. Tyrrel’s place, and serve your occasion, my 
boy !” 

Te By ! and if you like it, you may fire away, and wel- 
come,” said Sir Bingo ; ‘and I’ll spin a crown for first shot, 
for I do not understand being brought here for nothing, d—n 
me!” 

‘‘And there was never man alive so ready as I am to give 
you something to stay your stomach,” said the irritable High- 
lander. 

“Oh fie, gentleman ! fie, fie, fie!” exclaimed the pacific 
Mr. Winterblossom—* For shame, Captain—Out upon you, 
Sir Bingo, are you mad ?—what, principal and second !—the 
like was never heard of—never.” 

The parties were in some degree recalled to their more cool 
recollections by this expostulation, yet continued a short quarter 
deck walk to and fro, upon parallel lines, looking at each other 
sullenly as they passed, and bristling like two dogs who have a 
mind to quarrel, yet hesitate to commence hostilities. During 
this promenade, also, the perpendicular and erect carriage of 
the veteran, rising on his toes at. every step, formed a whimsi- 
cal contrast with the heavy loutish shuffle of the bulky Baronet, 
who had by dint of practice, very nearly attained that most 
eriviable of all carriages, the gait of a shambling Yorkshire 
ostler. His coarse spirit was now thoroughly kindled, and like 
iron, or any other baser metal, which is slow in receiving heat, 
it retained long the smouldering and angry spirit of resentment 
that had originally brought him to the place, andnow rend- 
ered him willing to wreak his uncomfortable feelings upon the 
nearest object which occurred, since the first purpose of his 
coming thither was frustrated. In his own phrase, his pluck was 
up and finding himself in a fighting humor, he thought it a pity, 
like Bob Actes, that so much “good courage should be thrown 
away. As, however, that courage after all consisted chiefly in ill 
humor ; and as, in the demeanor of the Captain, he read noth- 
ing deferential or deprecatory of his wrath, he began to listen 
with more attention to the arguments of Mr. Winterblossom, 
who entreated them not to sully, by private quarrel the honor they 
that day so happily acquired without either blood or risk. 

“It was now,” he said, “ three-quarters of an hour past the 


ST: RONAW’S WELL. 124 


time appointed for this person, who calls himself Tyrrel, to 
meet Sir Bingo Binks. Now, instead of standing squabbling 
here, which serves no purpose, I propose we should reduce to 
writing the circumstances which attend this affair, for the 
satisfaction of the company at the Well, and that the memo- 
randum shall be regularly attested by our subscriptions ; after 
which, I shall further humbly propose that it be the subject to the 
revision of the Committee of Management.” 

“T object to any revision of astatement to which my name 
shall be appended,” said the Captain. 

“ Right—very true, Captain,” said the complaisant Mr. 
Winterblossom ; “ undoubtedly you know best, and your signa- 
ture is completely sufficient to authenticate this transaction— 
however, as it is the most important which has occurred since 
the Spring was established, I propose we shall/all sign the 
procés verbal, as 1 may term it.” 

“ Leave me out, if you please,” said the Doctor, not much 
satisfied that both the original quarrel and the. by-battle had 
passed over without any occasion for the offices of a Machaon ; 
“leave me out, if you please; for it does not become me to. be 
ostensibly concerned in any proceedings which have had _ for 
their object a breach of the peace. And for the importance of 
waiting here for an hour, in a fine afternoon, it is. my opinion 
there was a more important service done to the Well of St. 
Ronan’s, when I, Quentin Quackleben, M. D., cured Lady 
Penelope Penfeather of her seventh attack upon the nerves, 
attended with febrile symptoms.” 

“No disparagement to your skill at all, Doctor,” said Mr. 
Winterblossom ; “ but I conceive the lesson which this fellow 
has received will be a great means to prevent improper persons 
from appearing at the Spring hereafter ; and, for my part, I 
shall move that no one be invited todine atthe table in future, 
till his name is regularly entered as a member of the company, 
in the lists at the public room. And I hope, both Sir Bingo 
and the Captain will receive the thanks of the company, for 
their spirited conduct in expelling the intruder.—Sir Bingo, will 
you allow me to apply to your flask—a little twinge I feel, 
owing to the dampness of the grass.” 

Sir Bingo, soothed by the consequence he had acquired, 
readily imparted tothe invalid athimbleful of his cordial, which, 
we believe, had been prepared by some cunning chemist in the 
wilds of Glenlivat. He then filled, a bumper, and. extended it 
toward the veteran, as an unequivocal symptom of. reconcilia- 
tion. The real turbinacious flavor no sooner reached the nose 
of the Captain, than the beverage was turned down his throat 


128 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


with symptoms of most unequivocal applause. “ I shall have some 
hope of the young fellows of this day,” he said, “‘ now that they 
begin to give up their Dutch and French distilled waters, and 
stick to genuine Highland ware. By Cot, it isthe only liquor 
fit for a gentleman to drink ina morning,if he can have the 
good fortune to come by it, you see.” 

‘* Or after dinner either, Captain,” said the Doctor, to whom 
the glass had passed in rotation ; “ it is worth all the wines in 
France for flavor, and more cordial to the system besides.” 

“ And now,” said the Captain, “ that we may not go off the 
ground with anything on our stomachs worse than the whisky, 
I can afford to say (as Captain Hector MacTurk’s character is 
tolerably well established), that I am sorry for the little differ- 
ence that has occurred betwixt me and my worthy friend, Sir 
Bingo, here.” 

“And since you are so civil, Captain,’ said Sir Bingo, 
“why, I am sorry too—only it would put the devil out of 
temper to lose so fine a fishing day—wind south—fine air on 
the pool—water settled from the flood—just in trim—and I 
dare say three pairs of hooks have passed over my cast before 
this time.” 

He closed this elaborate lamentation with a libation of the 
same cordial which he had imparted to his companions; and 
they returned in a body to the Hotel, where the transactions of 
the morning were soon afterward announced to the company, 
by the following programme :— 


’ 


STATEMENT. 


‘“‘ Sir Bingo Binks, baronet, having found himself aggrieved 
by the uncivil behavior of an individual calling himself Francis 
Tyrrel, now or lately a resident at the Cleikum Inn, Aultoun of 
St. Ronan’s; and having empowered Captain Hector MacTurk 
to wait upon the said Mr. Tyrrel to demand_an apology, under 
the alternative of personal satisfaction, according to the laws 
of honor and the practice of gentlemen, the said Tyrrel volun- 
tarily engaged to meet the said Sir Bingo Binks, baronet, at the 
Buck-stane, near St. Ronan’s Burn, upon this present day, being 
Wednesday August. In consequence of which appoint- 
ment, we the undersigned, did attend at the place named, from 
one o’clock till two, without seeing or hearing anything what- 
ever of the said Francis Tyrrel, or any one in his behalf—which 
fact we make thus publicly known, that all men, and par- 
ticularly the distinguished company assembled at the Fox 
Hotel, may be duly apprised of the character and behavior of 


"ST. RONAN’S WELL. 129 


the said Francis Tyrrel, in case of his again presuming to in- 
trude himself into the society of persons of honor. 
“The Fox Inn and Hotel, St. Ronan’s Well—August ih 
(Signed) “‘ Binco. Binks. 
“ Hecror MacTourk. 
“¢ PHILIP: WINTERBLOSSOM,”’ 


A little lower followed this separate attestation : 

fee Quentin Quackleben,(M.D4/\F.R.S5. Dl, ‘Bib 02; 
etc. etc., being called upon to attest what I knowin the said mat- 
ter, do hereby verify, that, being by accident at the Buck-stane, 
near St. Ronan’s Burn, on this present day, at the hour of one 
afternoon, and chancing to remain there for the space of nearly 
an hour, conversing with Sir Bingo -Binks, Captain MacTurk, 
and Mr. Winterblossom, we did not, during that time, see or 
hear anything of or from the person calling himself Francis | 
Tyrrel, whose presence at that place seemed to be expected by 
the gentleman I have just named.” This affiche was dated 
like the former, and certified under the august hand of kde FH 
Quackleben, M.D., etc! etcisete: 

Again, and prefaced by the averment that an improper 
person had been lately introduced into the company of St. 
Ronan’s Well, there came forth a legislative enactment, on- the 
part of the committee, declaring, that no one shall in future 
be invited to dinners, or balls, or other entertainments of: the 
Well, until their names shall be regularly entered in the books 
kept ‘for the purpose at the rooms.” Lastly, there wasa vote 
of thanks to Sir Bingo Binks and Captain MacTurk for their 
spirited conduct, and the pains which they had taken to 
exclude an improper person from the company at St. Ronan’s 
Well. 

These annunications speedily became the magnet of the 
day. All idlers crowded to peruse them; and it would be 
‘endless to notice the ‘God bless me’s,’—the ‘‘Lord have a 
care of us,”—the “Saw you ever the like’s.” of gossips, any 
more than the “‘ Dear me’s”’ and “Oh, laa’s” of the titupping 
misses, and the oaths of the pantalooned or buckskin’d beaux. 
The character of Sir Bingo rose like the stocks at the news of 
a despatch from the Duke of Wellington, and, what was extra- 
ordinary, attained some consequence even in the estimation of 
his lady. All shook their heads at the recollection of the unlucky 
Tyrrel, and found out much in his manner and address which 
convinced them that he was but an adventurer and swindler, 
A few, however, less partial to the Committee of Management 
(for whenever there is an administration, there will soon arise 


130 ST. RONANS WELL. 


an opposition), whispered among themselves, that, to give the 
fellow his due, the man, be he what he would, had only come 
among them, like the devil, when he was called for—And 
honest Dame. Blower blessed herself when she heard of such 
bloodthirsty doings as had been intended, and “ thanked God 
that honest Doctor Kickherben had come to nae harm amang 
a’ their nonsense.” 


CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. 
THE CONSULTATION. 


Clown.—I hope here be proofs. 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 


THE borough of lies, as all the world knows, about four- 
teen miles distant from St. Ronan’s, being the county town 
of that shire, which, as described.in the Tourist’s Guide, num- 
bers among its objects of interest that gay and popular water- 
ing-place, whose fame, no doubt, will be greatly enhanced by 
the present annals of its earlier history. As it is at present 
unnecessary to be: more particular concerning the scene of our 
story, we will fill up the blank left in the first name with the 
fictitious appellation of Marchthorn, having often found: our- 
selves embarrassed in the course of a story, by the occurrence 
of an ugly hiatus, which we cannot always at first sight fill 
up, with the proper reference to the rest, of the narrative. 

Marchthorn, then, was an old-fashioned Scottish town, the 
street of which, on market-day, showed a reasonable number 
of stout great-coated yeomen, bartering or dealing for the vari- 
ous commodities of their farms; and on other: days. of the 
week, only a few forlorn burghers, crawling about. hke half- 
awakened flies, and watching the town steeple till the happy 
sound of twelve strokes from Time’s oracle should tell them it 
was time to take their meridian dram. The narrow windows 
of the shops intimated very imperfectly the miscellaneous con- 
tents of the interior, where every merchant, as the shopkeepers 
of Marchthorn were termed, more Scotico, sold) everything that 
could be thought of. :As for manufactures, there were none, 
except that of the careful Town-Council, who were mightily 
busied in preparing the warp and woof; which, at the end of 
every five or six years, the town of Marchthorn contributed, for 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 131 


the purpose of weaving the fourth or fifth part of a member of 
Parliament. | | 

In such a town it usually happens that the Sheriff-clerk, es- 
pecially supposing him agent for several lairds of the higher 
order, is possessed of one of the best-looking houses ; and such 
was that of Mr. Bindloose.. None of the smartness of the 
brick-built and brass-hammered mansion of a southern attorney 
appeared indeed in this mansion, which was.a tall, thin, grim- 
looking building, in the centre of the town, with narrow win- 
dows and projecting gables, notched into that sort of descent, 
called crow-steps, and having the lower casements defended 
by stancheons of iron; for Mr. Bindloose, as frequently hap- 
pens, kept a branch of one of the two national banks,, which 
had been lately:established in the town of Marchthorn. 

Toward the door of this tenement, there advanced slowly 
up the ancient, but empty streets of this famous borough, a ve- 
hicle, which, had it appeared in Piccadilly, would have furnished 
unremitted laughter for a week, and conversation for a twelve- 
month. It was a: two-wheeled vehicle, which claimed none of 
the modern appellations of tilbury, tandem, dennet, or the like; 
but aspired only to the humble name of that almost forgotten 
accommodation, a whiskey; or, according to some authorities, 
a itim-whiskey.. Green was, or had been, its original color, 
and it was placed sturdily and safely low upon its little old- 
fashioned wheels, which bore much less than the usual propor- 
tion: to the size of the carriage which they sustained. It hada 
calash head, which had been pulled up, in consideration. either 
to the dampness of the morning air, or to the retiring delicacy 
of the fair form which, shrouded by leathern curtains, tenanted 
this venerable specimen of antediluvian coach-building,. 

But, as this fair and modest dame noway aspired to the skill 
of a charioteer, the management of a horse, which seemed 
as old as the carriage he drew, was in the exclusive charge of.an 
old-fellow in a postilion’s jacket, whose gray hairs. escaped on 
each side of an old-fashioned velvet jockey-cap, and whose left 
shoulder was so considerably elevated above his head, that it 
seemed as if, with little effort, his neck might have been tucked 
_ under his arm, like that of a roasted grouse-cock. The gallant 
equerry was mounted on a steed as old as_ that which toiled 
betwixt the shafts of the carriage; and which he guided by a 
leading rein,. Goading one animal with his single spur, and 
stimulating the other with his whip, he effected a reasonable 
trot upon the causeway, which only terminated when the 
whiskey stopped at Mr. Bindloose’s door—an event of import- 
ance enough to excite the curiosity of thednhabitants of that 


132 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


and the neighboring houses. Wheels were laid aside, needles 
left sticking in the half-finished seams, and many a nose, spec- 
tacled and unspectacled, was popped out of the adjoining win- 
dows, which had the good fortune to command a view of Mr, 

Bindloose’s front door. The faces of two or three giggling 
clerks were visible at the barred casements of which we have 
spoken, much amused at the descent of an old lady from this 
respectable carriage, whose dress and appearance might possi- 
bly have been fashionable at the time when her equipage was 
new. <A satin cardinal, lined with gray squirrels’ skin, and a 
black silk bonnet, trimmed with crape, were garments which did 
not now excite the respect which in their fresher days they had 
doubtless commanded. But there was that in ‘the features of 
the wearer, which would have commanded Mr. Bindloose’s best 
regard, though it had appeared in far worse attire; for he be- 
held the face of an ancient customer, who had always paid her 
law expenses with the ready penny, and whose accompt with 
the bank was balanced by a very respectable sum at her credit. 
It was, indeed, no other than our respected friend, Mrs. Dods 
of the Cleikum Inn, St. Ronan’s, Aultoun. 

Now her arrival intimated ‘matter of deep import. Meg 
was a person Of all others most averse to leave her home, where, 
in her own opinion at least, nothing went on well without her 
immediate superintendence. Limited, therefore, as was her 
sphere, she remained fixed in the centre thereof; and few as 
were her satellites, they were under the necessity of performing 
their revolutions around her, while she herself continued 
stationary. Saturn, in fact, would be scarce more surprised at 
a passing call from the Sun, than Mr. Bindloose at this unex- 
pected visit of his old’client. In one breath he rebuked the 
inquisitive impertinence of his clerks, in another stimulated his 
housekeeper, old Hannah—for Mr. Bindloose was a bluff 
bachelor—to get tea ready in the green parlor; and while 
yet speaking, was at the side of the whiskey, unclasping the 
curtains, rolling down the apron, and assisting his old cca to 
dismount. 

“The japanned tea-caddie, Hannah—the best bol baaase 
Tib kindle a spark of fire—the morning’s damp—Draw in the 
giggling faces of ye, ye d—d idle scoundrels, or laugh at your 
ain toom pouches—it will be lang or your weeldoing fill them.” 
This was spoken, as the honest lawyer himself might have said, 
in transitu, the rest by the side of the carriage. ‘My stars, 
Mrs. Dods, and is this really your ain sell, zz propria persona. 
—Wha lookit for you at such a time of day ?—Anthony, how’s 
a’ wi’ ye, Anthony ?—so ye hae taken the road again, Anthony 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 133 


—help us down wi’ the apron, Anthony—that will do.—Lean 
on me, Mrs. Dods—help your mistress, Anthony—put the 
horses in my stable—the lads will give you the key.—Come 
away, Mrs. Dods—I am blithe to see you straight your legs on 
the causeway of our auld borough again—come in by, and we'll 
see to get you some breakfast for ye hae been asteer early this 
morning.” 

“J am a sair trouble to you, Mr. Bindloose,” said the old 
lady, accepting the offer of his arm, and accompanying him into 
the house; “I am e’en a sair trouble to you, but I could not 
rest till I had your advice on something of moment.” 

“Happy will I be to serve you, my guid auld acquaintance,” 
said the Clerk; “but sit you down—sit you down—sit you 
down, Mrs. Dods—meat and mass never hindered wark. Ye 
are something overcome wi’ your travel—the spirit canna aye 
bear through the flesh, Mrs. Dods; ye should remember that 
your life is a precious one, and ye should take care of your 
health, Mrs. Dods.” 

“My life precious !” exclaimed Meg Dods: “nane o’ your 
whullywhaing, Mr. Bindloose—Deil ane wad miss the auld 
girning alewife, Mr. Bindloose, unless it were here and there a 
puir body, and maybe the auld house-tyke, that wadna be sae 
weel guided, puir fallow.” 

“Fie, fie! Mrs. Dods,” said the Clerk, in a tone of friendly 
rebuke; “it vexes an auld friend to hear ye speak of yourself 
in that respectless sort of a way; and, as for quitting us, I 
bless God I have not seen you look better this half-score of 
years. But maybe you will be thinking of setting your house 
in order, which is the act of a carefuw’ and of a Christian 
woman—Oh! it’s an awfu’ thing to die intestate, if we had 
grace to consider it.” 

“‘ Aweel, I daur say I’ll consider that some day soon, Mr. 
Bindloose ; but that’s no my present errand.” 

“Be it what it like, Mrs. Dods, ye are right heartily wel- 
come here, and we have a’ the day to speak of the business in 
hand—/estina lente, that is the true law language—hooly and 
fairly, as one may say—ill treating of business with an empty 
stomach—and here comes your tea, and I hope Hannah has 
made it to your taste.” 

Meg sipped her tea—confessed Hannah’s skill inthe mysteries 
of the Chinese herb—sipped again, then tried to eat a bit of 
bread and butter, with very indifferent success; and notwith- 
standing the lawyer’s compliments to her good looks, seemed, 
in reality, on the point of becoming ill. 

“In the deil’s name, what is the matter?” said the lawyer, 


1? 


134 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


too well read in a profession where sharp observation is pecu- 
liarly necessary to suffer these symptoms of agitation to escape 
him. “ Ay, dame, ye are taking this business of yours deeper 
to heart than ever I kend you take onything. Ony o’ your 
banded debtors failed, or like to fail?) What then, cheer ye up 
—you can afford a little loss, and it canna be ony great matter, 
or I would doubtless have heard of it.” 

“Jn troth, but it zs a loss, Mr. Bindloose ; and what say ye 
to the loss of a friend ?” 

This was a possibility which had never entered the lawyer’s 
long list of calamities, and he was at some loss to conceive what 
the old lady could possibly mean by so sentimental a profusion. 
But just as he began to come out with his “ Ay, ay, we are all 
mortal, Vita incerta, mors certissima /”’ and two or three more 
pithy reflections, which he was in the habit of uttering after 
funerals, when the will of the deceased was about to be opened 
—just then Mrs. Dods was pleased to become the expounder 
of her own oracle. 

““T see how it is, Mr. Bindloose,” she said; “I maun tell 


my ain ailment, for you are no likely to guess it ; and so, if ye. 


will shut the door, and see that nane of your giggling callants 


are listening in the passage, £ will e’en tell you how things 


stand with me.” 


Mr. Bindloose hastily arose to obey her commands, gave a 


cautionary glance into the Bank-office, and saw that his idle 
apprentices were fast at their desks—turned the key upon them, 
as if it were in a fit of absence, and then returned, not a little 
curious to know what could be the matter with his old friend ; 
and leaving off all further attempts to put cases, quietly drew 
his chair near hers, and awaited her own time to make her 
communication. 

“Mr. Bindloose,” said she, ‘““I am no sure that you may 
mind, about six or seven years ago, that there were twa daft 
English callants, lodgers of mine, that had some trouble from 
auld St. Ronan’s about shooting on the» Spring-well-head 
muirs.”’ 

““T mind it as weel as yesterday, Mistress,” said the Clerk ; 
“by the same token you gave me a note for my trouble (which 
wasna worth speaking about), and bade me no bring in a bill 
against the puir bairns—ye had aye a kind heart, Mrs. Dods.” 

- “Maybe, and maybe no, Mr. Bindloose—that is just as I 
-find folk.—But concerning these lads, they baith left the coun- 
try, and as I think, in some ill blude wi’ ane another, and now 
the auldest and the doucest of the twa came back again about 
a fortnight sin’ syne, and has bcen my guest ever since,” 


| 
. 


ST: RONAN’S WELL. 135 


“ Aweel, and I trust he is not at his auld tricks again, good- 
wife?” answered the Clerk. “I havena sae muckle to say 
either wi’ the new Sheriff or the Bench of Justices as T used to 
hae, Mrs. Dods—and the Procurator-Fiscal is very severe on 
poaching, being borne out by the new Association—few of our 
auld friends of the Killnakelty are able to come to the sessions 
now, Mrs. Dods.”’ 

“The waur for the country, Mr. Bindloose,” replied the old 
lady—“ they were decent, considerate men, that didna plague 
a puir herd callant muckle about a moorfowl or a mawkin, unless 
he turned common fowler—Sir Robert Ringhorse used to say 
the herd lads shot as mony gleds and pyots as they did game. 


and the game no a feather the plentier. If I wad hae a brace 
or twa of birds in the house, as everybody looks for them after 
the twelfth—I ken what they are like to cost me—And what 
for no ?—risk maun be paid for.—There is John Pirner himsell, 
that has keepit the muir-side thirty years, in spite of a’ the 
lairds in the country, shoots, he tells me, now-a-days, as if he 
felt a rape about his neck.” 

“‘ It wasna about ony game business, then, that you wanted 
advice ?”’ said Bindloose, who, though somewhat of a digresser 
himself, made little allowance for the excursions of others from 
the subjects i in hand. 

** Indeed is it no, Mr. Bindloose,’ *said Meg; “ but it is e’en 
about this unhappy callant that i spoke to you about.—Ye 
maun ken J have cleiket a particular fancy to this lad, Francis 
Tirl—a fancy that whiles surprises my very sell, Mr. Bindloose, 
only that there is nae sin in it.” | 

‘¢ None—none in the world, Mrs. Dods,” said the lawyer, 

thinking at the same time within his own mind—* Oho ! the 
mist begins to clear up—the young poacher has hit the mark, 
I see—winged the old barren gray-hen !—ay, ay—marriage 
contract, no doubt—but I manm gie her line.—Ye are a wise 
woman, Mrs. Dods,” he continued aloud, ‘‘ and can doubtless 
consider the chances and the changes of human affairs.” 
- But I could never have considered what has befallen this 
puir lad, Mr. Bindloose,” said Mrs. Dods, “ through 'the-malice 
of wicked men.—He lived then, at the Cleikum, as I tell you, 
for mair than a fortnight, as quiet as a lamb ona’ lea-rig—a 
decenter lad never came within my door—ate and drank eneugh 
for the gude of the house, and nae mair then was for his ain 
gude, whether of body or soul—cleared his bills ilka. Rete 7! 
at e’en, as regularly as Saturday came round,” 


136 ST. RONAN?S WELL, 


‘An admirable customer no doubt, Mrs. Dods,” said the 


lawyer. 
“ Never was the like of him for that matter,” answered the 
honest dame. “ But to see the malice of men !—Some of thae 


landloupers and gill-flirts doun at the fithy puddle yonder, that 
they ca’ the Waal, had heard of this puir lad, and _ the bits of 
pictures that he made fashion of drawing, and they maun cuitle 
him awa doun to the hottle, where mony a bonny story they had 
clecked, Mr. Bindloose, baith of Mr. Tirl and of mysell.” 

‘‘ A Commissary Court business,” said the writer, going off 
again upon a false scent. ‘I shall trim their jackets for them, 
Mrs. Dods, if you can but bring tight evidence of the facts—I 
will soon bring them to fine and palinode—I will make them 
repent meddling with your good name.” 

“ My gude name ! What the sorrow is the matter wi’ my 
name, Mr. Bindloose ? ” said the irritable client. “I think ye 
hae been at the wee cappie this morning, for as early as it is— 
My gude name !—if onybody touched my gude name, I would 
neither fash council nor commissary—I wad be down amang 
them like a jer-falcon amang a wheen wild geese, and the best 
amang them that dared to say onything of Meg Dods but what 
was honest and civil, I wad sune see if her cockernonnie was 
made. of her ain hair or other folk’s.. dZy gude name, indeed!” 

“ Weel, weel, Mrs. Dods, I was mista’en, that’s a’,” said the 
writer, ‘‘ I was mista’en ; and I dare to say you would haud 
your ain wi’ your neighbors as weel as ony woman in the land 
—But let us hear now what the grief is—in one word.” 

“In one word, then, Clerk Bindloose, it is little short of — 
murder,” said Meg in a low tone, as if the very utterance of the 
word startled her. 

‘¢ Murder ! murder, Mrs. Dods ?—it cannot be—there i is not 
a word. of it in the Sheriff-office—the Procurator-Fiscal kens 
nothing of it—there could not be murder in the country, and 
me not hear of it—for God’s sake, take heed what you say, 
woman, and dinna get yourself into trouble.” 

“Mr. Bindloose I can but speak according to my lights,” 
said Mrs. Dods ; “‘ you are in a sense a judge in Israel, at least 
you are one of the scribes having authority—and I tell you with 
a wae and bitter heart, that this puir callant of. mine that was 
lodging in my house has been murdered. or kidnapped, awa 
amang thae banditti folk down at the New Waal; and I'll hae 
the Jaw put in force against them, if it should cost me a 
hundred pounds.” 

The Clerk stood much. astonished at the nature of Meg’s 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 134 


accusation, and the pertinacity with which she seemed disposed 
to insist upon it. 

* T have this comfort,” she continued, “ that whatever has 
happened, it has been by no fault of mine, Mr. Bindloose ; for 
weel I wot, before that bloodthirsty auld half-pay Philistine, 
MacTurk, got to speech of him, I clawed his cantle to some pur- 
pose with my hearth-besom.—But the poor simple bairn himsell, 
that had nae mair knowledge of the wickedness of human nature 
than a calf has of a flesher’s gully, he threepit to see the auld 
hardened bloodshedder, and trysted wi’ him to meet wi’ some 
of the gang at an hour certain the neist day, and awa he gaed 
to keep tryst, but since'that hour naebody ever has set een on 
him.—And the mansworn villains now want to put a disgrace on 
him, and say that he fled the country rather than face them !— 
a likely story—fled the country for them !—and leave ‘his bill 
unsettled—him that was sae regular—and his portmantle and 
his fishing-rod, and the pencils and pictures he held sic a wark 
about !—It’s my faithful belief, Mr. Bindloose—and ye may 
trust me or no as ye like—that he had some foul play between 
the Cleikum and the Buck-stane. I have thought it,and I have 
dreamed it, and I will be at the bottom of it, or my name is not 
Meg Dods, and that I wad have them a’ to reckon on.—Ay, ay, 
that’s right, Mr. Bindloose, tak out your pen and inkhorn, anich 
let us set about it to purpose.” 

With considerable difficulty, and at the expense of much cross- 
examination, Mr. Bindloose extracted from his client a.detailed 
account of the proceedings of the company at the Well toward 
Tyrrel, so far as they were known to or suspected by Meg, mak- 
ing notes, as the examination proceeded, of what appeared 'to be 
matter of consequence. After a moment’s consideration, he 
asked the dame the very natural question, how she came to be 
acquainted with the material fact, that'a hostile appointment 
was made between Captain MacTurk and her lodger, when, 
according to her own account, it was made zwtra parietes, and 
remotis testibus ? 

“ Ay, but we victualers ken weel eneugh what goes on in our 
ain houses,” said Meg—‘ And what for no?—If ye maum kena’ 
about it, I e’en listened through the key-hole of the door.” 

“And do-you say you'heard them settle an appointment for 
a duel?” said the Clerk; “and did. you no take ony measures 
to hinder ‘mischief, Mrs. Dods, having ‘such a respect for this 
lad as you say you have, Mrs. Dods =I really wadna have 
looked for the like o’ this at your hands.” 

“In truth, Mr. Bindloose,” said Meg, putting her apron to 
her eyes, “ and that’s what vexes me mair than:a’ the rest, and 


138 ST. RONAN'S WELL, 


ye needna say muckle to one whose heart is e’en the sairer that 
she has been a thought to blame. But there has been mony a 
challenge, as they ca’ it, passed in my house when thae daft 
lads of the Wildfire Club and the Helterskelter were upon their 
rambles; and they had aye sense enough to make it,up with- 
out fighting, sae that I really did not apprehend onything like 
mischief.—And ye maun think, moreover, Mr. Bindloose, that 
it would have been an unco thing if a guest, ina decent and 
creditable public like mine, was to have cried coward before 
ony of thae land-louping blackguards that live down at the hottie 
yonder.” 

‘That is to say, Mrs. Dods, you were desirous your guest 
should fight for the honor of your house,” said Bindloose. 

“What for no, Mr. Bindloose ?—Isna that kind of fray aye 
about honor? and -what for should: the honor of a substantial 
four-nooked sclated house of three stories no be foughten for, 
as weel asthe credit of ony of these feckless callants that make 
such a fray about their reputation ?-I promise you my house, 
the Cleikum, stood in the Auld ‘Town of St. Ronan’s before they 
were born, and it will stand there after they are, hanged, as I 
trust some: of them are like to be.” 

“Well, but perhaps your lodger had less zeal for the honor 
of the house, and has: quietly taken himself out of harm’s way,” 
said Mr. Bindloose ; “for, if I understand. your story; this meet- 
ing never took place.” 

‘“‘ Have less zeal !”’ said Meg, determined to be pleased. vib 
ho supposition of: her lawyer, ‘‘ Mr. Bindloose, ye little ken him 
—I:wishi ye had seen him when he was angry 1—Ldaved hardly 
face him mysell, and there are) no;mony folk that I. am feared 
for—Meeting ! there was:nae meeting, I trow—they never dared 
to meet: him fairly—-but) I.am sure waur came of-it than ever 
would: have come of a meeting; for Anthony heard. twa shots 
gang off as he was watering the auld naig down at the burn, and 
that is not far frae the footpath. that leads to the Buck-stane. 
I was angry at him for no making on to see what the matter 
was, but he thought it was auld Pirner out wi’ the double barrel, 
and he wasna keen of making himself a witness, in case he suld 
have been caa’don in the Poaching Court.” . 

» Well,” said the Sheriff-clerk, « and I dare say he did hear 
a poacher fire a couple of shots—nothing more likely. Believe 
me, Mrs. Dods, :your guest had no fancy for the party Captain 
MacTurk invited him to—and being a quiet sort of man, he has 
just walked away to his own home, if he has one—I am really 
sorry: you have: given yourself the trouble of this long adie 
‘about so simple a matter,” 


| ST. RONAN’S WELL. 139 


Mrs. Dods remained with her eyes fixed on the ground in a 
very suilen and discontented posture, and when she -spoke, it 
was in a tone of corresponding displeasure. 


a friend in you, Mr. Bindloose—I am sure I aye took your part 
when folks miscaa’d ye, and said ye were this, that, and the 
other thing, and little better than an auld sneck-drawing loon, 
Mr. Bindloose.——And ye have ay keepit my penny of money, 
though, nae doubt, Tam Turnpenny lives nearer me, and they 
say he allows half a per cent mair than ye do if the siller lies, 
and mine is but seldom steered.” 

«But ye have not the Bank’s security, madam,” said Mr. 
Bindloose, reddening. ‘1 say harm of nae man’s credit—ill 
would it beseem me—but there is a difference between Tam 
Turpenny and the Bank I trow.” 

“Weel, weel, Bank here Bank there, I thought I had afriend 
in you, Mr. Bindloose ; and here am I, come from my ain house 
all the way to yours, for sma comfort, I think.” 

“‘ My stars, madam,” said the perplexed scribe, “‘ what would 
you have me to do in sucha blind story as yours, Mrs. Dods ?— 
Be a thought reasonable—consider that there is no Corpus 
delicti,”’ 

“ Corpus delicti ! and what’s that ?” said Meg; “ something 
to be paid for, nae doubt, for your hard words a’ end in that. 
—And what for suld I no have a Corpus delicti, or a Habeas 
Corpus, or any other Corpus that I like, sae lang as I am will- 
ing to lick:and lay down the ready siller?” 

“Lord help and pardon us, Mrs. Dods,” said the distressed 
agent, *“‘ ye mistake the matter a’ thegither! When I say there 
is no Corpus delicti, I mean to say there is no proof thar a 
crime has been committed.” * 

‘** And does the man say that murder is not a crime, then ?”’ 
answered Meg, who had taken her own view of the subject far 
too strongly to be converted to any other—‘“ Weel I wot it’s a 
crime, baith by the law of God and man, and mony a pretty man 
has been strapped for it.” , 

“T ken all that very weel,” answered the writer ; “but, my 
stars, Mrs. Dods, there is nae evidence of murder in this case— 
nae proof that aman has been slain—nae production of his 
dead body—and that is what we call the Corpus delicti.” 

“Weel than, the deil lick it out of ye,” said Meg, rising in 
wrath, ‘for I will awa hame again; and as for the puir lad’s 


* For example, a man cannot be tried for murder merely in the case of 
the non-appearance of an individual ; there must be proof that the party 
has been murdered, 


140 ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


body, I’ll hae it fund, if it cost me turning the earth for three 
miles round wi’ pick and shool—if it were but to give the puir 
bairn Christian burial, and to bring punishment on MacTurk 
and the murdering crew at the Waal, and to shame an auld 
doited fule like yoursell, John Bindloose.”’ . 

She rose in wrath to call her vehicle ; but it was neither the 
interest nor the intention of the writer that his customer and 
he should part on such indifferent terms. He implored her 
patience, and reminded her that the horses, poor things, had 
just come off their stage—an argument which sounded irresist- 
ible in the ears of the old she-publican, in whose early education 
due care of the post-cattle mingled with the most sacred duties, 
She therefore resumed her seat again in a sullen mood, and 
Mr. Bindloose was cudgeling his brains for some argument 
which might bring the old lady to reason, when his attention 
was drawn by a noise in the passage. 


CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. 
A PRAISER OF PAST TIMES. 


——Now your traveler, 
He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess. 
KING JOHN. 


THE noise stated at the conclusion of last chapter to have 
disturbed Mr. Bindloose, was the rapping of one, as in haste and 
impatience, at the Bank-office door, which office was an apart- 
ment of-the Banker’s house, on the left hand of his passage, as 
the parlor in which he had received Mrs. Dods was upon the 
right. 

In general, this office was patent to all having business 
there ; but at present, whatever might be the hurry of the 
party who knocked, the clerks within the office could not admit 
him, being themselves made prisoners by the prudent jealousy 
of Mr. Bindloose, to prevent them from listening to his consul- 
tation with Mrs. Dods. They therefore answered the angry 
and impatient knocking of the stranger only with stifled giggling 
from within, finding it no doubt an excellent joke, that their 
master’s. precaution was thus interfering with their own dis 
charge of duty. 

With one or two hearty curses upon them, as the regular 


ST. RONANW’S WELL. 141 


plagues of his life, Mr. Bindloose darted into the passage, and 
admitted the stranger into his official apartment. The doors 
both of the parlor and office remaining open, the ears of Luckie 
Dods (experienced, as the reader knows, in collecting intelli- 
gence) could partly overhear what passed. The conversation 
seemed to regard a cash transaction of some importance, as 
Meg became aware when the stranger raised a voice which was 
naturally sharp and high, as he did when uttering the following 
words, toward the close of a conversation which had lasted 
about five minutes—“ Premium ?—Nota pice, sir—not a courie 
—not a farthing—premium for a Bank of. England bill? d’ye 
take me for a fool, sir ?—do not I know that you call forty days 
par when you give remittances to London? ” 

Mr. Bindloose was here heard to mutter something indis- 
tinctly about the custom of the trade. 

“Custom!” retorted the stranger, “‘no such thing—damn’d 
bad custom, if itis one—don’t tell me of customs—‘ Sbodikins, 
man, I know the rate of exchange all over the world, and have 
drawn bills from Timbuctoo—My friends in the Strand filed it 
along with Bruce’s from Gondar—talk to me of premium ona 
Bank of England post-bill !—What d’ye look at the bill for ?— 
D’ye think it doubtful ?—I can change it.” 

“* By no means necessary,” answered Bindloose, “the bill is 
quite right ; but it is usual to indorse, sir.” 

“Certainly—reach me a pen—d’ye think I can write with 
my ratan ?>—What sort of ink is this ?—yellow as curry sauce— 
never mind—there is my name—Peregrine Touchwood—I got 
it from the Willoughbies, my Christian name—Have I my full 
change here?” 

“‘ Your full change, sir,” answered Bindloose. 

“Why, you should give me a premium, friend, instead of me 
giving you one.” 

“It is out of our way, I assure you, sir,” said the banker, 
“quite out of our way—but if you would step into the parlor 
and take a cup of tea”’ 

‘““ Why, ay,” said the stranger, his voice sounding more dis- 
tinctly as (talking all the while, and ushered along by Mr. 
Bindloose) he left the office and moved toward the parlor 
‘“‘a cup of tea were no such bad thing, if one could come by it 
genuine—but as for your premium ” So saying, he entered 
the parlor and made his bow to Mrs. Dods, who, seeing what 
she called a decent purpose-like body, and aware that his pocket 
was replenished with English and Scottish paper currency, 
returned the compliment with her best courtesy. 

Mr. Touchwood, when surveyed more at leisure, was a short, 


142 ST. RONANS WELL. 


stout, active man, who though sixty years of age and upward, 
retained in his sinews and frame the elasticity of an earlier 
period. His countenance expressed self-confidence, and some- 
thing like a contempt for those who had neither seen nor 
endured so much as he had himself. His short black hair was 
mingled with gray, but not entirely whitened by it. His eyes 
were jet black, deep-set, small and sparkling, and contributed, 
with a short turned-up nose, to express an irritable and choleric 
habit. . His complexion was burnt to a brick-color by the 
vicissitudes of climate, to which it had been subjected ; and 
his face, which, at the distance of a yard or two, seemed hale 
and smooth, appeared, when closely examined, to be seamed 
with a million of wrinkles, crossing each other in every direction 
possible, but as fine as if drawn by the point of a very small 
needle.* His dress was a blue coat and buff waistcoat, half- 
boots remarkably well blacked, and a silk handkerchief tied with 
military precision. The only antiquated part of his dress was a 
cocked hat of equilateral dimensions,in the button-hole of which 
he wore a very small cockade. Mrs. Dods, accustomed to judge 
of persons by their first appearance, said, that in the three steps 
which he made from the door to the tea-table, she recognized, 
without the possibility of mistake, the gait of a person who was 
well to pass in the world ; “and that,” she added, with a wink, 
“is what we victuallers are seldom deceived in. If a gold-laced 
waistcoat has an empty pouch, the plain swan’s-down will be 
the brawer of the twa.” 

“ A drizzling morning, good madam,” said Mr. Touchwood, 
with a view of sounding what sort of company he had got 
into. 

“A fine saft morning for the crap, sir,” answered Mrs. Dods 
with equal solemnity. 

“Right my good madam; soft is the very word, though 
it has been some time since I heard it. I have cast a double 
hank about the round world since I last heard of a_ soft + 
morning.” 

“You will be from these parts, then?” said the writer, 
ingeniously putting a case, which, he hoped, would induce the 
stranger to explain himself. “ And yet, sir,” he added, after a 
pause, “ I was thinkinz that Touchwood is not a Scottish name, 
at least that I ken of.” 

“ Scottish name ?—no,”’ replied the traveler; “ but a man 


* This was a peculiarity in the countenance of the celebrated Cossack 
leader Platoff. 
_t An epithet which e.presses, in Scotland, what the barometer calls 
rainy. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 143 


may have been in these parts before, without being a native— 
or, being a native, he may have had some reason to change 
his name—there are many reasons why men change their 
names.” 

“ Certainly, and some of them very good ones,’ said the 
lawyer; ‘‘as in the common case of an heir of entail, where 
deed of provision and tailzie is maist ordinarily implemented by 
taking up name and arms.” 

“Ay, or in the case of a man having made the country 
too hot for him under his own proper appellative,” said Mr. 
Touchwood. 

“That is a supposition, sir,” replied the lawyer, “ which it 
would ill become me to put.—But at any rate, if you knew this 
country formerly, ye cannot but be marvelously pleased with 
the change we have been making since the American war,— 
hill-sides bearing clover instead of heather,—rents doubled, 
trebled, quadrupled,—the auld reekie dungeons pulled down, 
and gentlemen living in as good houses as you will see any- 
where in England.” 

“Much good may it do them, for a pack of fools 
Mr. Touchwood, hastily. 

“You do not seem much delighted with our improvements, 
sir,” said the banker, astonished to hear a dissentient voice 
where he conceived all men unanimous. 

** Pleased !” answered the stranger—‘“ Yes, as much pleased 
as I am with the devil, who, I believe, set many of them 
agoing. Ye have got an idea that everything must be changed 
— Unstable as water, ye shall not excel—lI tell ye, there have 
been more changes in this poor nook of yours within the last 
forty years, than in the great empires of the East for the space 
of four thousand, for what I know.” 

“ And why not,” replied Bindloose, “‘ if they be changes for 
the better?” 

“But they are zof for the better,” replied Mr. Touchwood, 
eagerly. ‘I left your peasantry as poor as rats indeed, but 
honest and industrious, enduring their lot in this world with 
firmness, and looking forward to the next with hope—Now they 
are mere eye-servants—looking at their watches, forsooth, every 
ten minutes, lest they should work for their master half-an- 
instant after loosing-time—And then, instead of studying the 
Bible on the work days, to kittle the clergyman with doubtful 
points of controversy on the Sabbath, they glean all their theol- 
ogy from Tom Paine and Voltaire.” 

“Weel I wot the gentleman speaks truth,” said Mrs. Dods, 
“J fand a bundle of their bawbee blasphemies in my ain 


1? 


replied 


144 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


kitchen—But I trow I made a clean house of the packman 
loon that brought them !—No content wi’ turning the tawpies’ 
heads wi’ ballants, and driving them daft wi’ ribbons, to cheat 
them out of their precious souls, and gie them the deevil’s ware, 
that I suld say sae, in exchange for the siller that suld support 
their puir father that’s aff wark and bedridden!” 

‘¢ Father ! madam,” said the stranger ; ‘“‘they think no more 
of their father than Regan or Goneril.” 

“In gude troth, ye have skeel of our sect, sir,” replied the 
dame; ‘‘they are gomerils, every one of them—I tell them sae 
every hour of the day, but catch them profiting by the doctrine.” 

«¢ And then the brutes are turned mercenary, madam,” said 
‘Mr. Touchwood. ‘‘ I remember when a Scotchman would have 
scorned to touch a shilling that he had not earned, and yet 
was as ready to help a stranger as an Arab of the desert. And 
now I did but drop my cane the other day as I was riding—a 
fellow who was working at the hedge made three steps to lift it 
—I thanked him, and my friend threw his hat on his head, and 
‘damned my thanks, if that were all ’—Saint Giles could not 
have excelled him.” 

“Weel, weel,” said the banker, “that may be a’ as you say, 
sir, and nae doubt wealth makes wit waver, but the country’s 
wealthy, that cannot be denied, and wealth, sir, ye ken” 

‘I know wealth makes itself wings,” answered the cynical 
stranger; ‘but I am not quite sure’ we have it even now. 
You make a great show, indeed, with building and cultivation; 
but stock is not capital, any more than the fat of a corpulent 
man is health or strength.” 

“Surely, Mr. Touchwood,” said Bindloose, who felt his own 
account in the modern improvements, ‘‘a set of landlords, 
living lke lairds in good earnest, and tenants with better 
housekeeping than the lairds used to have, and facing Whit- 
sunday and Martinmas as I would face my breakfast—if these 
are not signs of wealth, I do not know where to seek for 
them.” 

“They are signs of folly, sir,” replied Touchwood; “ folly 
that is poor, and renders itself poorer by desiring to be thought 
rich ; and how they come by the means they are so ostenta- 
tious of, you, who are a banker, perhaps can tell me better than 
I can guess.” 

‘There is maybe an accommodation-bill discounted now 
and then, Mr. ‘Touchwood; but men must have accommoda- 
tion, or the world would stand still—accommodation is the 
grease that makes the wheels go.” 

‘Ay, makes them go down hill to the devil,’ 


b] 


answered 


ae 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 14% 


Touchwood. “I left you bothered about one Air bank, but 
the whole country is an Air bank now, I think—And who is 
to pay the piper ?—But it is all one—lI will see little more of 
it—it is a perfect Babel, and would turn the head of a man 
who has spent his life with people who love sitting better than 
running, silence better than speaking, who never eat but when 
they are hungry, never drink but when thirsty, never laugh 
without a jest, and never speak but when they have something 
to say. But here, it is all run, ride, and drive—froth, foam 
and flippancy—no steadiness—no character.” 

“T’ll lay the burden of my life,” said Dame Dods, looking 
toward her friend Bindloose, “that the gentleman has been at 
the new Spaw-Waal yonder.” 

*¢Spaw do you call it, madam ?—If you mean the new estab- 
lishment that has been spawned down yonder at St. Ronan’s, 
itis the very fountain-head of folly and coxcombry—a Babel 
for noise and a Vanity-fair for nonsense—no well in yourswamps 
tenanted by such a conceited colony of clamorous frogs.” 

Sir, sir!” exclaimed Dame Dods, delighted with the un- 
qualified sentence passed upon her fashionable rivals, and eager 
to testify her respect for the judicious stranger who had pro- 
nounced it,—‘ will you let me have the pleasure of pouring 
you out a dishof tea?” And so saying, she took bustling pos- 
session of the administration which had hitherto remained in 
the hands of Mr. Bindloose himself. “I hope it is to your 
taste, sir,” she continued, when the traveler had accepted her 
courtesy with the grateful acknowledgment which men addicted 
to speak a great deal usually show to a willing auditor. 

“Tt is as good as we have any right to expect, ma’am,” 
answered Mr. Touchwood ; “ not quite like what I have drunk 
at Canton with old Fong Qua; but the Celestial Empire does 
not send its best tea to Leadenhall Street, nor does Leadenhall 
Street send its best to Marchthorn.” 

“That may be very true, sir,” replied the dame ; “ but I will 
venture to say that Mr. Bindloose’s tea is muckle better than 
you had at the Spaw-Waal yonder.” 

“Tea, madam !—I saw none—Ash leaves and black-thorn 
leaves were brought in in painted canisters and handed about 
by powder-monkeys in livery, and consumed by those who liked 
it, amidst the chattering of parrots and the squalling of kittens. 
I longed for the days of the Spectator, when I might have laid 
my penny on the bar, and retired without ceremony—But no— 
this blessed decoction was circulated under the auspices of some 
half-crazed blue-stocking or other, and we were saddled with all 


146 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


the formality of an entertainment, for this miserable allowance 
of a cockle-shell full of cat-lap per head.” 

** Weel, sir,” answered Dame Dods, “all I can say is, that if 
it had been my luck to have served you at the Cleikum Inn, 
which our folks have kept: for these twa generations, I canna 
pretend to say ye should have had such tea as ye have been 
used to in foreign parts where it grows, but the best I had I 
wad have gi’en it toa gentleman of your appearance, and I never 
charged mair than. sixpence in all my time, and my father’s 
before me.’ 

“J wish I had known the Old Inn was still standing, madam,” 
said the traveler; “I should certainly have been your guest, 
-and sent down for the water every morning—the doctors insist 
I must use Cheltenham, or some substitute, for the bile—though, 
d—n them, I believe it’s only to hide their own ignorance. And 
I thought this Spaw would have been the least evil of the two; 
but I have been fairly overreached—one might as well live in 
the inside of a bell. I think young St. Ronan’s must be mad, 
to have established such a Vanity-fair upon his father’s old 
property.” 

“Do you ken this St. Ronan’s that now is?” inquired the 
Dame. 

‘“ By report only,” said Mr. Touchwood ; ‘‘ but Ihave heard 
of the family, and I think I have read of them, too, in Scottish 
history. JI am sorry to understand they are lower in the world 
than they have been. This young man does not, seem to take 

the best way to mend matters, spending his time among gam- 
blers and black-legs.” 

‘“‘T should be sorry if it were so,” said honest Meg Dods, 
whose hereditary respect for the family always kept her from 
joining in any scandal affecting the character of the young laird 
-~—‘“ My forbears, sir, have had kindness frae his ; and although 
maybe he may have forgotten all about it, it wad ill become me 
to say onything of him that should not be said of his father’s 
son.” 

Mr. Bindloose had not the same motive for forbearance ; he 
declaimed against Mowbray asa thoughtless dissipater of his 
own fortune, and that of others. ‘‘ I have some reason to speak,” 
he said, ‘‘having two of his notes for £100 each, which I dis- 
counted out of mere kindness and respect for his ancient family, 
and which he thinks nae mair of retiring; than he does of paying 
the national debt—And here has he been raking every shop in 
Marchthorn, to fit out an entertainment for all the fine folk at 
the Well yonder ; and tradesfolk are obliged to take his accept- 
ances for their furnishings. But they may cash his bills that 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 147 


will ; I ken ane that will never advance a bawbee on ony paper 
that has John Mowbray either on the back or front of it. He 
had mair need to be paying the debts which he has made 
already, than making new anes, that he may feed fules and 
flatterers.” 

‘I believe he is likely to lose his preparations, too,” said Mr. 
Touchwood, ‘‘for the entertainment has been put off, as I heard, 
in consequence of Miss Mowbray’s illness.” 

“ Ay, ay, puir thing !’’ said Dame Margaret Dods; ‘ her health 
has been unsettled for this mony a day.” 

*¢ Something wrong here, they tell me,” said the traveler, 
pointing to his own forehead significantly. 

“ God only kens,” replied Mrs. Dods ; ‘but I rather suspect 
the heart than the head—the puir thing is hurried here and 
there, and down to the Waal, and up again, and nae society or 
quiet at hame; and a’ thing ganging this unthrifty ¢ gvate—nae 
wonder she is no that weel settled.” | 

“ Well,” replied ‘Touchwood,” she is worse they say than she 
has been, and that has occasioned -the party at Shaws Castle 
having been put off. Besides, now this fine young lord has come 
down to the Well, they will undoubtedly wait her recovery.” 

“A lord! ” ejaculated the astonished Mrs. Dods; “a lord 
come down to the Waal—they will be neither to haud nor to 
bind now—ance wud and aye waur—a lord !+-set them up and 
shute them. forward—a lord !—the Lord have a care 0’ us !— 
a lord at the hottle—Maister: Touchwood, it’s’ my mind he 
will only prove to be a Lord 0’ Session.” 

“'Nay, not» so, my good lady,” replied the traveler, ‘he is 
an English lord, and, as they say, a Lord of. Parliament—but 
some folk pretend to say that there is a flaw in the title.” 

‘‘T’ll warrant is there—a dozen:of:them !-” said’ Meg, with 
alacrity—for she could by no means’ endure to’ think on the 
accumulation of dignity likely to accrue to the rival establish- 
ment, from its becoming the residence of an actual nobleman. 
“ Vl warrant he’ll prove a landlouping lord’on their hand, and 
they will be e’encheap o’ the loss—And’he has come down out 
of order it’s like, and nae doubt he’ll no be lang there before he 
will recover his health, for the credit‘of the Spaw.” 

‘“¢ Faith, madam, his present disorder is. one which the Spaw 
will hardly cure—he is shot in the shoulder with a pistol-bullet 
-—a robbery attempted, it seems—that is one of your new accom- 
plishments—no such thing happened in Scotland in my’ time— 
men would have sooner expected to meet with the phoenix than. 
with a ION mad | a 


ca 


148 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“And where did this happen, if you please, sir?” asked the 
man of bills. 

‘“ Somewhere near the old village,” replied the stranger ; ” 
and, if I am rightly informed, on Wednesday last.” 

“This explains your twa shots, I am thinking, Mrs. Dods,” 
said Mr. Bindloose ; ‘‘ your groom heard them on the Wednesday 
—it must have been this attack on the stranger nobleman.” 

““ Maybe it was, and maybe it was not,” said Mrs. Dods; 
‘but I’ll see gude reason before I give up my ain judgment in 
that case, I wad like to ken if this gentleman,” she added, 
returning to the subject from which Mr, Touchwood’s interest- 
ing conversation had for a few minutes diverted her thoughts, 
“has heard aught of Mr. Tirl ? ” 

“Tf you mean the person to whom this paper relates,” said 
the stranger, taking a printed handbill from his pocket, “ I 
heard of little else—the whole place rang of him, till I was 
almost as sick of ‘Tyrrel as William Rufus was. Some idiotical 
quarrel which he had engaged in, and whichhe had not fought 
out, as their wisdom thought he should have done, was the prin- 
cipal cause of censure. That is another folly now, which has 
gained ground among you. Formerly, two old proud lairds, or 
cadets of good family, perhaps quarreled, and hada rencontre, 
or fought a duel after the fashion of their old Gothic ancestors ; 
but men who had no grandfathers: never dreamt of such: folly 
—And here the folk denounce a trumpery dauber of canvas, for 
such I understand to be this hero’s occupation, as if he werea 
field-officer, who made valor his profession ; and who, if you de- 
prived hint of his honor, was hke to be deprived of his bread 
at the same time.—Ha, ha, ha! it reminds one of Don Quixote, 
who took his neighbor, ‘Samson Carrasco, for a knight-errant.”’ 

The perusal of this paper, which contained the notes formerly 
laid before the reader containing the statement of Sir Bingo, 
and the censure which the company at the Well had thought fit 
to pass upon his affair with Mr. Tyrrel, induced Mr. Bindloose 
to say to Mrs. Dods, with as little exultation on the superiority 
of his own judgment as human nature would pernut,— 

“Ye see now that I was right, Mrs. Dods, and that there 
was nae earthly use in your fashing yoursell wi’ this lang journey 
—The lad has just ta’en the bent, rather than face Sir Bingo; 
and troth, I think him the wiser of the twa for sae. doing 
There ye hae print for it.” 

Meg answered ‘somewhat sullenly, “ Ye may. be mista’ en, 
for a’ that, your ainsell, for as wise as ye are, Mary Biridloose:; pth 
shall hae that matter mair strictly inquired into.” 

This led to a renewal of the altercation concerning the prob 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 149 


able fate of Tyrrel, in the course of which the stranger was 
induced to take some interest in the subject. 

At length Mrs. Dods, receiving no countenance from the 
experienced lawyer for the hypothesis. she had formed, rose, in 
something like displeasure, to order her whiskey to be prepared. 
But hostess as she was herself, when in her own dominions, she 
reckoned without her host in the present instance; for the 
hump-backed postilion, as absolute in his department as Mrs. 
Dods herself, declared that the cattle would not be fit for the 
road these two hours yet. The good lady was therefore obliged 
to/await his pleasure, bitterly lamenting all the while the loss 
which a house of public entertainment was sure to sustain by 
the absence of the landlord or landlady, and anticipating a 
long list of broken dishes, miscalculated reckonings, unarranged 
chambers, and other disasters, which she was to expect at her 
return. Mr. Bindloose, zealous to recover the regard of his 
good friend and client, which he had in some degree forfeited 
by contradicting her on a favorite subject, did not choose to 
offer the unpleasing, though obvious topic of consolation, that 
an unfrequented inn is little exposed to the accidents she appre- 
hended. On the contrary, he condoled with her very cordially, 
and went so far as to hint, that if Mr. Touchwood had come to 
Marchthorn with post- horses, as he supposed from his dress, 
she could have the advantage of them to return with more 
despatch to St. Ronan’ S. 

“Tam not sure,” said Mr. Touchwood, suddenly, “but I may 
return there myself, In that case I will be glad to set this 
good lady down, and to staya few days at her house, if she will 
receive me.—I respect a woman like you, ma’am, who pursues 
the occupation of your father—lI have been in countries, ma’am, 
where people have anit the same trade, from: father to son, 
for thousands of years—And I like the fashion—it shows a 
steadiness and Paice of character.” 

Mrs. Dods put on a joyous countenance at this aed pro- 
testing that ali should be done in her power to make things 
agreeable ; and while her good friend, Mr. Bindloose, expatiated 
upon the comfort her new guest would experience at the Cleiqum, 
she silently contemplated with delight the prospect of a speedy 
and dazzling triumph, by carrying off a creditable customer from 
her showy and successful rival at the Well. 

“ T shall be easily accommodated, ma’am,” said the stranger ; 
“T have traveled too much and too far to be troublsome. A 
Spanish venta, a Persian khan, or a Turkish caravanserai, is 
all the same to me—only, as I have no servant—indeed, never 
can be plagued with one of these idle loiterers—I must beg 


156 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


you will send to the Well for a bottle of the water on such 
mornings as I cannot walk there myself—I find it is really of 
some service to me.’ 

Mrs. Dods readily promised compliance with this reasonable 
request ; graciously conceding, that there “could be nae ill in 
the water itsell but maybe some gude—it was only the New 
Inn, and the daft havrels that they caa’d the Company, that she 
misliked. Folk had a jest that St. Ronan dookit the Deevil 
in the Waal, which garr’d it taste aye since of brimstone—but 
she dared to say that was a’ Papist nonsense, for she was tell’t 
by him that kend weel, and that was the min'ster himsell, that 
St. Ronan was nane of your idolatrous Roman saunts, but a 
Chaldee” (meaning probably a Culdee), ‘“ whilk was doubtless 
a very different story.” 

Matters being thus arranged to the satisfaction of both parties, 
the post-chaise was ordered, and speedily appeared at the door of 
Mr. Bindloose’s mansion. It was not without a private feeling 
of reluctance, that honest Meg mounted the step of a vehicle, 
on the door of which was painted, ‘* Fox INN anD Horet, St. 
Ronan’s WELL; but it was too late to start such scruples. 

“T never thought to have entered ane o’ their hurley-hackets,” 
she said, as she seated herself; ‘and sic a like thing as it is— 
scarce room for twa folk !—Weel I wot, Mr. Touchwood, when 
I was in the hiring line, our twa chaises wad hae carried, ilk 
ane o’ them, four grown folk and as mony bairns. ‘I trust that 
doited creature Anthony will come awa back wi’ my whiskey 
and the cattle, as soon as they have had their feed.—Are ye 
sure ye hae room aneugh, sir?—I wad fain hotch mysell fur- 
ther yont. . 

‘Oh, ma’am,” answered the Oriental, “Iam accustomed 
to all sorts of conveyances—a dooly, a litter,a cart, a palan- 
quin, or a post-chaise, are all alike to me—I think I could be 
an inside with Queen Mab in a nutshell, rather than not get 
forward.—Begging you many pardons, if you have no DereCulat 
objections, I will light my sheroot,” etc. etc. etc. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. I5E 


CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. 
THE CLERGYMAN, 


A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year, 
GOLDSMITH’S DESERTED VILLAGE, 


Mrs. Dops’s conviction, that her friend Tyrrel had been 
murdered by the sanguinary Captain MacTurk, remained firm 
and unshaken; but some researches for the supposed body 
having been found fruitless, as well as expensive, she began to 
give up the matter in despair. ‘She had done her duty” 
“she left the matter to them that had a charge anent such 
things *’—and ‘‘ Providence would bring the mystery to light in 
his own fitting time ”’—such were the moralities with which the 
good dame consoled herself; and, with less obstinacy than Mr. 
Bindloose had expected, she retained her opinion without 
changing her banker and man of business. 

Perhaps Meg’s acquiescent inactivity in a matter ach she 
had threatened to probe so deeply, was partly owing to the 
place of poor Tyrrel being supplied in her blue chamber, and 
in her daily thoughts and cares, by her new guest, Mr. ‘Touch- 
wood ; in possessing whom, a deserter as he was from the 
Well, she obtained, according to her view of the matter, a de- 
cided triumph over her rivals. It sometimes required, how- 
ever, the full force of this reflection, to induce Meg, old and 
crabbed as she was, to submit to the various caprices and ex- 
actions of attention which were displayed by her new lodger. 
Never any man talked so much as Touchwood of his habitual 
indifference to food and accommodation in traveling; and 
probably there never was any traveler who gave more trouble 
in a house of entertainment. He had his own whims about 
cookery ; and when these were contradicted, especially if he 
felt at the same time a twinge of incipient gout, one would 
have thought he had: taken his lessons in the pastry shop of 
Bedreddin Hassan, and was ready to renew the scene of the 
unhappy cream-tart, which was compounded without pepper. 
Every now and then he started some new doctrine in culinary 
matters, which Mrs. Dods deemed a heresy; and then the 
very house rang with their disputes. Again, his bed must 
necessarily be made at a certain angle from the pillow to the 


152 | ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


foot-posts; and the slightest deviation from this disturbed, he 
said, his nocturnal rest, and did certainly ruffle his temper. He 
was equally whimsical about the brushing of his clothes, the 
arrangement of the furniture in his apartment, and a thousand 
minutiz, which, in conversation, he seemed totally to contemn, 

It may seem singular, but such is the inconsistency of 
human nature, that a guest of this fanciful and capricious dis- 
position gave much more satisfaction to Mrs. Dods than her 
quiet and indifferent friend Mr. Tyrrel. If her present lodger 
could blame, he could also applaud; and no artist, conscious 
of such skill as Mrs. Dods possessed, is indifferent to the 
praises of such a connoisseur as Mr. Touchwood. »The pride 
of art comforted her for the additional labor; nor was ita 
matter unworthy of this most honest publican’s consideration, 
that the guests who give most trouble are usually those who 
incur the largest bills, and pay them with the best grace. On 
this point Touchwood was a jewel of a customer. He never 
denied himself the gratification of the sightest whim, whatever 
expense he might himself incur, or whatever trouble he might 
give to those about him; and all was done under protestation 
that the matter in question was the most indifferent thing to 
him in the world. ‘* What the devil did he care for Burgess’s 
sauces, he that had eat his kouscousou, spiced with nothing 
but the sand of the desert ? only it was a shame for Mrs. Dods 
to be without what every decent house, above the rank of an 
alehouse, ought to be largely provided with.” 

In short, “he fussed, fretted, commanded, and was obeyed ; 
kept the house in hot water, and yet was so truly good-natured 
when essential matters were in. discussion, that it was impos- 
sible to: bear him the least ill-will; so that Mrs. Dods, though 
in a moment of spleen she sometimes wished him at the top 
of Tintock, always ended by singing forth his praises. She 
could not, indeed, help suspecting that he was a Nabob, as 
well from his conversation about foreign parts as from his 
freaks of indulgence to himself, and generosity to others— 
attributes which she understood to be proper to most “ Men of 
Ind,” But although the reader has heard her testify a general 
dislike to this species of Fortune’s favorites, Mrs. Dods had sense 
enough to know that a Nabob living in the neighborhood, who 
raises the price of eggs and poultry upon the good houséwives 
around, was very different from a Nabob residing within her 
own gates, drawing all his supplies from her own larder, and 
paying, without hesitation or question, whatever bills her con- 
science permitted her to sendin, In short, to come back to 
the point at which we perhaps might have stopped some time 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 163 


since, landlady and guest were very much pleased with each 
other. 

But Ennui finds entrance into every scene, when the gloss 
of novelty is over; and the fiend began to seize upon Mr. 
Touchwood just when he had got all matters to his mind in the 
Cleikum Inn—had instructed Dame Dods in the mysteries 
of curry and mulligatawny—drilled the chambermaid into the 
habit of making his bed at the angle recommended by Sir John 
Sinclair—and made some progress in instructing the hump- 
backep postilion in the Arabian mode of grooming. Pamphlets 
and newspapers, sent from London and from Edinburgh by loads, 
proved inadequate to rout this invader of Mr. Touchwood’s 
comforts; and, at last, he bethought himself of company. 
The natural resource would have been the Well—but the trav- 
eler had a holy shivering of awe, which crossed him at the 
very recollection of Lady Penelope, who had worked him rather 
hard during his former brief residence ; and although Lady 
Binks’s beauty might have charmed an Asiatic by the plump 
graces of its contour, our senior was past the thoughts of a Sul- 
tana andaharem. At length a bright idea crossed his mind, 
and he suddenly demanded of Mrs. Dods, who was pouring out 
his tea for breakfast into a large cup of a very particular spe- 
cies of china, of which he had presented her with a service on 
condition of her rendering him this personal good office— 

“Pray, Mrs. Dods, what sort of a man is your minister?” 

“ He’s just aman like other men, Mrs. Touchwood,” replied 
Meg Dods ; ‘ what sort of a man should he be?” 

‘A man like other men?—ay—that is to say, he has the 
usual complement of legs and arms, eyes and ears—But is he 
a sensible man?” 

‘No muckle o’ that sir,” answered Dame Dods ; “ for if he 
was drinking this very tea that ye gat down from London wi’ 
the mail, he wad mistake it for common bohea.” 

“ Then he has not all his organs—wants a nose, or the use 
of one at least,” said Mr. Touchwood; “the tea is right gun: 
powder—a perfect nosegay.” 

“ Aweel, that may be,” said the landlady; “but I have 
gie’n the minister a dram frae my ain best bottle of real Coniac 
brandy, and may I never stir frae the bit, if he didna commend 
my whisky when he set down the glass! There is no ane oy 
them in the Presbytery but himsell—ay, or in the Synod either 
—but wad hae kend whisky frae brandy.” 

“ But what sort of a man is he?—Has he learning?” de 
manded Touchwood. 

“ Learning ?~aneugh o’ that,” answered Meg ; “just dung 


E54 ST. RONAN 'S WELL. 


donnart wi’ learning—lets a’ things about the |/Manse gang 
whilk gate they will, sae they dinna plague him upon the score. . 
An awiu’ thing it is to see sic an ill-redd-up house! If Ihad 
the twa tawpies that sorn upon the honest man ae week under 
my drilling, I think I wad show them how to sort.a lodging!” 

** Does he preach well!” asked the guest. 

“ Oh, weel. aneugh, weel aneugh—sometimes he will fling 
in a lang word ora bit of learning that our farmers and ban- 
net lairds canna sae weel follow——But what of that, as I am aye 
tng, them? them that pay stipend get aye the mair for their 

* Does he attend to his parish?—Is he kind to the poor ? ” 

* Ower muckle o’ that, Maister Touchwood—I am sure he 
makes the. Word gude, and turns not away from those that ask 
o’ him-—his very pocket is picked. by a wheen ne ’er-do-weel 
blackguards, that gae sorning through the country.” 

“ Sorning through. the country, Mrs..Dods ?—what would 
you think if you had seen the Fakirs, the Dervises, the Bonzes, 
the Imaums, the monks, and the ‘mendicants, that: I have 
seen ?——But goon, never mind—Does this minister of yours, 
cone much into company? sf 

“* Company ?—gae wa’,’”’ replied Meg, “he keeps nae com- 
pany at a’, neither in his ain house or ony gate else. _He comes. 
down in the morning in a lang ragged night-gown, like a potato 
bogle, and down he ‘sits amang his books; and if they dinna 
bring, him something to eat, the puir demented body has never 
the heart to cry for aught, and he has been kend to. sit for ten 
hours thegither black fasting, whilk is a’ mere papistrie, though 
he does it just out o’ forget.” 

‘““Why, landlady, in that case, your parson is anything but 
the ordinary kind of man you described him—Forget his din- 
ner !—the man must be mad—he shall dine with me to-day—he 
shall have such a dinner as, I’ll be bound; he won’t forget in 
a hurry.” 

‘“Ye’ll maybe find that easier said than dune,” said Mrs. 
Dods; “the honest man hasna, in a sense, the. taste of his 
mouth—forby, he never dines out of his ain house—that is, 
when he dines at a’—A drink of milk and a bit of bread serves 
his turn, or maybe a cauld potato. It’s a heathenish fashion 
of him, for as good a man as he is; for surely there is nae 
Christian man but loves his own bowels.” 

““Why, that may be,’ answered Touchwood; “but J have 
known many who took so much care of their own bowels, my 
good dame, as to have none for any one else. But come— 
bustle to the work—get us as good a dinner for two.as you can 


ST. RONAN?S WELL. pee 


set out—have it ready at three to an instant—get the old hock 
I had sent me from Cocurn—a bottle of the particular Indian 
Sherry—and another of you 
know, Meg. And stay, he is a priest, and must have port— 
have all ready, but don’ t bring the wine into the sun, as that 
silly fool Beck did the other day .—I can’t go down to the larder 
myself, but let us have no blunders.” 

** Nae fear, nae fear,’ said Meg, with a toss of the head; 

“T need naebody to look into my larder but mysell, ! trow— 
but it’s an unco order of wine for twa folk, and ane o’ them a 
minister.” 

“Why, you foolish person, is there not the woman up the 
village that has just brought another fool into the world, and 
will she not. need sack and caudle, if we leave some of our 
wine ?” 

“A gude ale-posset wad set her better,” said Meg; ‘ how- 
ever, if it’s your will, it shall be my pleasure. But the like of 
sic a gentleman as yoursell never entered my doors !” 

The traveler was gone before she had completed the sen- 
tence; and, leaving Meg to bustle and maunder at her leisure, 
away he marched, with the haste that characterized all. his 
motions when he had any new project in his head, to form an 
acquaintance with the minister of St. Ronan’s, whom, while he 
walks down the street to the Manse, we will endeavor to intro- 
duce to the reader. 

The Rev. Josiah Cargill was’ the son of a small farmer in 
the south of Scotland; and a weak constitution, joined to the 
disposition for study which frequently accompanies infirm 
health, induced his parents, though at the expense of some 
sacrifices, to educate him for the ministry. ‘They were the 
rather led to submit to the privations which were necessary to 
support this expense, because they conceived from their family 
traditions, that he had in his veins some portion of the blood 
of that celebrated Boanerges of the Covenant, Donald Cargill, 
who was slain by the persecutors at. the town of Queensferry, 
in the melancholy days of Charles II., merely because, in the 
plentitude of his sacerdotal power, he had cast out of the 
church, and delivered: over to Satan by a formal excommunica- 
tion, the King and Royal family, with’ all the ministers: and 
courtiers thereunto belonging. But if Josiah was really derived 
from this uncompromising champion, the heat of the family 
spirit which he might have inherited was qualified by the sweet- 
ness of his own disposition, and the quiet: temper of the times 
in which he had the good fortune to live.,- He was charac- 
terized by all who knew him asa mild, gentle, and studious 


’ 


156 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


lover of learning, who, in the quiet prosecution of his own sole 
object, the acquisition of knowledge, and especially of that 
connected with his profession, had the utmost indulgence for 
all whose pursuits were different from his own. His sole 
relaxations were those of a gentle, mild, and pensive temper, 
and were limited to a ramble, almost always solitary, among 
the woods and hills, in praise of which he was sometimes guilty 
of a sonnet, but rather because he could not help the attempt, 
than as proposing to himself the fame or the rewards which 
attend the successful poet. Indeed, far from seeking to insinu- 
ate his fugitive pieces into magazines or newspapers, he blushed 
at his poetical attempts even while alone, and, in fact, was 
rarely so indulgent to his vein as to commit them to paper. 

From the same maid-like modesty of disposition, our student 
suppressed a strong natural turn toward drawing, although 
he was repeatedly complimented upon the few sketches which 
he made, by some whose judgment was generally admitted. 
It was, however, this neglected talent, which, like the swift 
feet of the stag in the fable, was fated to render him a ‘service 
which he might in vain have expected from his worth and 
learning. 

My Lord Bidmore, a distinguished connoisseur, chanced to 
be in search of a private tutor for his son and heir, the Honor 
able Augustus Bidmore, and for this purpose had consulted the 
Professor of Theology, who passed before him in review several 
favorite students, any of whom he conceived well suited for 
the situation ; but still his answer to the important and 
unlooked-for question, “‘ Did the candidate understand draw- 
ing ? ’’ was in the negative. The Professor, indeed, added his 
opinion, that such an accomplishment was neither to be desired 
nor expected in a student of theology ; but, pressed: hard with 
this condition as a size gua non, he at length did remember a 
dreaming lad about the Hall, who seldom could be got to speak 
above his breath, even when delivering his essays, but was said 
to have a strong turn for drawing. This was enough for my 
Lord Bidmore, who contrived to obtain a sight of some of 
young Cargill’s sketches, and was satisfied that, under such a 
tutor, his son could not fair to. maintain that character for 
hereditary taste which his father and grandfather had acquired 
at the expense of a considerable estate, the representative 
value of which was now the painted canvas in the great gallery 
at Bidmore House. | 

Upon following up the inquiry concerning the young man’s 
character, he was,found to possess all the other wecessary qualifi- 
cations of learning and morals, ina greater degree than perhaps 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 154 


Lord Bidmore might have required ; and, to the astonishment 
of his fellow-students, but more especially to his own, Josiah 
Cargill was promoted to the desired and. desirable situation of 
private tutor to the Honorable Mr. Bidmore. 

Mr. Cargill did his duty ably and conscientiously, by a 
spoiled though good-humored lad, of weak health and very 
ordinary parts. _He could not, indeed, inspire into him any 
portion of the deep and noble enthusiasm which characterizes 
the youth of genius ; but his pupil made such progress in each 
branch of his studies as his capacity enabled him to attain. 
He understood the learned languages, and could be very pro- 
found on the subject of various readings—he pursued science, 
and could class shells, pack mosses, and arrange minerals—he 
drew without taste, but with much accuracy ; and although he 
attained no commanding height in any pursuit, he knew enough 
of many studies, literary and scientific, to fill up his time, and 
divert from temptation a head, which was none of the strongest 
in point of resistance. : 

Miss Augusta Bidmore, his lordship’s only other’ child, 
received also the instructions of Cargill in such branches of 
science as her father chose she should acquire, and her tutor was 
capable to teach. But her progress was as different from that 
of her brother, as the fire of heaven differs from that grosser 
element which the peasant piles upon his smouldering hearth. 
Her acquirements in Italian and Spanish literature, in history, 
in drawing, and in all elegant learning, were such as to enchant 
her teacher, while at the same time it kept him on the stretch, 
lest, in her successful career, the scholar should outstrip the 
master. 

Alas ! such intercourse, fraught as itis with dangers arising 
out of the best and kindest, as well as the most natural feelings 
on either side proved in the present, as in many other instances, 
fatal to the peace of the preceptor. Every feeling heart will 
excuse a weakness, which we shall presently find carried with it 
its Own severe punishment. Cadenus, indeed, believe him who 
will, has assured us, that, in such a. perilous intercourse, he 
himself preserved the limits which were unhappily transgressed 
by the unfortunate Vanessa, his more impassioned pupil :— 


‘* The innocent delight he took 
To see the virgin mind her book, 
Was but the master’s secret joy, 
In school to hear the finest boy.” 


But Josiah Cargill was less fortunate, or less cautious. He 
suffered his fair pupil to become inexpressibly dear to him, 


158 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


before he discovered the precipice toward which he was mov- 
ing under the direction of a blind and misplaced passion. He 
was indeed utterly incapable of availing himself of the oppor- 
tunities afforded by his situation, to involve his pupil in the 
toils of a mutual passion. Honor and gratitude alike forbade 
such a line of conduct, even had it been consistent with the 
natural bashfulness, simplicity, and innocence of his disposition, 
To sigh and suffer in secret, to form resolutions of separating 
himself from a situation so fraught with danger, and to postpone 
from day to day the accomplishment of a resolution so prudent, | 
was all to which the tutor found himself equal; and it is not 
improbable, that the veneration with which he regarded his 
patron’s daughter, with the utter hopelessness of the passion 
which he nourished, tendered to render his love yet more pure 
and disinterested. 

At length the line of conduct which reason had long since 
recommended, could no longer be the subject of procrastination, 
Mr. Bidmore was destined to foreign travel for a twelvemonth, 
and Mr. Cargill received from his patron the alternative of 
accompanying his pupil, or retiring upon a suitable provision, 
the reward of his past instructions. It can hardly be doubted 
which he preferred; for while he was with young Bidmore, he 
did not seem entirely separated from his sister. He was sure to 
hear of Augusta frequently, and to see some part, at least, of 
the Jetters which she was to write to: her brother ; he might also 
hope to be remembered in these letters as her “good friend 
and tutor; ”’ and to these consolations, his quiet, contemplative, 
and yet enthusiastic disposition, clung to as a secret source of 
pleasure, the only one which life seemed to open to him. 

But fate had a blow in store, which ‘he had not anticipated. 
The chance of Augusta’changing her maiden condition for that . 
of a wife, probable as her rank, beauty, and fortune rendered 
such an event, had never once occurred to him; and although 
he had imposed upon himself the unwavering belief that she 
never could be his, he was inexpressibly affected by the intelli- 
gence that she had become the property of another. 

The Honorable Mr, Bidmore’s letters to his father soon after 
announced that poor Mr. Cargill had been seized with a nervous 
fever, and ‘again, that his reconvalescence was attended with so 
much debility, it seemed both of mind and body, as entirely to 
destroy his utility as a traveling companion. Shortly after 
this the travelers separated, and Cargill returned to his native 
country alone, indulging upon the road in a melancholy abstrac- 
tion of mind, which he had suffered to grow upon him since the 
mental shock which he had sustained, and which in time became 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 12g 


the most characteristical feature of his demeanor. His medi- 
tations were not even disturbed by any anxiety about his future 
subsistence, although the cessation of his employment seemed to 
render that precarious. For this, however, Lord Bidmore had 
made provision ; for, though a coxcomb where the fine arts were 
concerned, he was in other particulars a just and honorable 
mah, who felt a sincere pride in having drawn the talents of 
Cargill from obscurity, and entertained due gratitude for the 
manner in which he had achieved the important task entrusted 
to him in his family. 

His lordship had privately purchased from the Mowbray 
family the patronage or advowson of the living of St. Ronan’s, 
then held by a very old incumbent, who died shortly afterward, 
so that upon arriving in England he found himself named to the 
vacant living. So indifferent, however, did Cargill feel himself 
toward this preferment, that he might possibly not have taken 
the trouble to go through the necessary steps previous to his 
ordination, had it not been on account of his mother, now a 
widow, and unprovided for, unless by the support which he 
afforded her. He visited her in her small retreat in the suburbs 
of Marchthorn, heard her pour out her gratitude to Heaven, 
that she should have been granted life long enough to witness 
her son’s promotion to a charge, which, in her eyes, was more 
honorable and desirable than an Episcopal see—heard her chalk 
out ‘the life which they were to lead together in the humble 
independence which had thus fallen on him—he heard all this, 
and had no power to crush her hopes and her triumph by the 
indulgence of his own romantic feelings. He passed almost 
mechanically through the usual forms, and was inducted into 
the living of St. Ronan’s. 

Although fanciful and romantic, it was notin Josiah Cargill’s 
nature to yield to unavailing melancholy ; yet he sought relief, 
not in society, but in solitary study. His seclusion was the 
more complete, that his mother, whose education had been as 
much confined as_ her fortunes, felt awkward under her new 
dignities, and willingly acquiesced in her son’s secession from 
society, and spent her whole time in superintending the little 
household, and in her way providing for all emergencies, the 
occurrence of which might call Josiah out of his favorite book- 
room. As old age rendered her inactive, she began to' regret 
the incapacity of her son to superintend his own household, and 
talked something of matrimony, and the mysteries of the muckle 
wheel. To these admonitions Mr. Cargill returned only ss 
and evasive answers; and when the old Tady slept in the village 
churchyard, at a reverend old age, there was no one to perform 


160 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


the office of superintendent in the minister’s family. Neither 
did Josiah Cargill seek for any, but patiently submitted to all 
the evils with which a bachelor estate is attended, and which 
were at least equal to those which beset the renowned Mago- 
Pico during his state of celibacy.* His butter was ill churned, 
and declared by all but himself and the quean who made it, 
altogether uneatable ; his milk was burnt in the pan, his fruit 
and vegetables were stolen, and his black stockings mended 
with blue and white thread. 

For all these things the minister cared not, his mind ever 
bent upon far different matters. Do not let my fair readers do 
Josiah more than justice, or suppose that, like Beltenebros in 
the desert, he remained for years the victim of an unfortunate 
and misplaced passion. No—to the shame of the male sex be 
it spoken, that no degree of hopeless love, however desperate 
and sincere, can ever continue for years to imbitter life. There 
must be hope—there must be uncertainty—there must be reci- 
procity, to enable the tyrant of the soul to secure a dominion 
of very long duration over a manly and well-constituted mind, 
which is itself clesirous to zz/7 its freedom. ‘The memory of 
Augusta had long faded from Josiah’s thoughts, or was remem- 
bered only as a pleasing, but melancholy and unsubstantial 
dream, while he was straining forward in pursuit of a yet nobler 
and coyer mistress, in a word, of Knowledge herself. 

Every hour that he could spare from his parochial duties, 
which he discharged with zeal honorable to his heart and head, 
was devoted to his studies, and spent among his books. But 
this chase of wisdom, though in itself interesting and dignified, 
was indulged to an excess which diminished the respectability, 
nay the utility of the deceived student; and he forgot, amid 
the luxury of deep and dark investigations, that society has its 
claims, and that the knowledge which is unimparted, is neces- 
sarily a barren talent, and is lost to society, like the miser’s 
concealed hoard, by the death of the proprietor. His studies 
were also under the additional disadvantage, that, being pur- 
sued for the gratification of a desultory longing after knowledge, 
and directed to no determined object, they turned on points 
rather curious than useful, and while they served for the 
amusement of the student himself, promised little utility to 
mankind at large. 

Bewildered amid abstruse researches, metaphysical and his- 
torical, Mr. Cargill, living only for himself and his books, ac- 
quired many ludicrous habits, which exposed the secluded 


* Note E. Mago-Pico, 


ST, RONAN’S WELL. 161 


student to the ridicule of the world, and which tinged, though 
they did not altogether obscure, the natural civility of an amia: 
ble disposition, as well as the acquired habits of politeness 
which he had learned in the good society that frequented Lord 
Bidmore’s mansion. He not only indulged in neglect of dress 
and appearance, and all those ungainly tricks which men are 
apt to acquire by living very much alone, but besides, and 
especially, he kecame probably the most abstracted and absent 
man of a profession peculiarly liable to cherish such habits. 
No man fell so regularly into the painful dilemma of mistaking, 
or, in Scottish phrase, mzskenning, the person he spoke to, or 
more frequently inquired of an old maid for her husband, of.a 
childless wife about her young people, of the distressed 
widower for the spouse at whose funeral he himself had 
assisted but a fortnight before; and none was ever more fa- 
miliar with strangers whom he had never seen, or seemed more 
estranged from those who had a title to think themselves well 
known to him. The worthy man perpetually confounded sex, 
age, and calling; and when a blind beggar extended his hand 
for charity, he has been known to return the civility by taking 
off his hat, making a low bow, and hoping his worship was 
well. 

Among his brethren, Mr. Cargill alternately commanded 
respect by the depth of his erudition, and gave occasion to 
laughter from his odd peculiarities. On the, latter occasions 
he used abruptly to withdraw from the ridicule he had prc 
voked; for notwithstanding the general mildness of his char- 
acter, his solitary habits had engendered a testy impatience of 
contradiction, and a keener sense of pain arising from the 
satire of others, than was natural to his unassuming disposi- 
tion. As for his parishioners, they enjoyed, as may reason- 
sonably be supposed, many a. hearty laugh at. their pas- 
tor’s expense, and were sometimes, as Mrs. Dods hinted, more 
astonished than edified by his learning ; for in pursuing a point 
of biblical criticism, he did not altogether remember that he was 
addressing a popular and unlearned assembly, not delivering a 
concio ad clerum—a mistake, not arising from any conceit of his 
learning, or wish to display it, but from the same absence 
of mind which induced an excellent divine, when, preaching. be- 
fore a party of criminals condemned to death, to break off. by 
promising the wretches, who were to suffer next morning, “the 
rest of the discourse at the first proper opportunity.” But all 
the neighborhood acknowledged Mr. Cargill’s serious and de- 
vout discharge of his ministerial duties; and the poor parish- 
ioners forgave his innocent peculiarities, in consideration of his 


162 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


unbounded charity; while the heritors, if they ridiculed the 
abstractions of Mr. Cargill on some subjects, had the grace to 
recollect that they had prevented him from suing an augment- 
ation of stipend, according to the fashion of the clergy around 
him, or from demanding at their hands a new manse, or the 
repair of the old one. He once, indeed, wished that they would 
amend the roof of his book ‘room, which “rained in” * in a 
very pluvious manner; but receiving no direct answer from our 
friend Meiklewham, who neither relished the proposal nor saw 
means of eluding it, the minister quietly made the necessary 
repairs at his own expense, and gave the heritors no further 
trouble on the subject. 

Such was the worthy divine whom our don vivant at the 
Cleikum Inn hoped to conciliate by a good dinner and Cock- 
burn’s particular; an excellent menstruum in most cases, but 
not likely to be very efficacious on the present occasion. 


CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. 


THE ACQUAINTANCE. 


*T wixt us thus the difference trims :— 
Using head instead of limbs, 
You have read what I have seen; 
Using limbs instead of head, 
I have seen what you have read— 
Which way does the balance lean ? 
; BUTLER. 


Ovr traveler, rapid in all his resolutions and motions, strode 
stoutly down the street, and arrived at the Manse, which was, 
as we have already described it, all but absolutely ruinous. 
The total desolation and want of order about the door would 
have argued the place uninhabited, had it not been for two or 
three miserable tubs with suds, or such like: sluttish contents, 
which were left there, that those who broke their shins among 
them might receive a sensible proof, that “‘ here the hand of 
woman had been.” The door being half off its hinges, the 
entrance was for the time protected by a broken harrow, which 
must necessarily be removed before entry could be obtained. 
The little garden, which might have given an air of comfort to 


* Scottice for ‘‘ admitted the rain.” 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 163 


the'old house had it been kept in any order, was abandoned 
to a desolation, of which that of the sluggard was only a type ; 
and the minister’s man, an attendant always proverbial for 
doing half work, and who seemed in the present instance to do 
none,. was seen among docks and nettles, solacing himself with 
the few gooseberries which remained on’ some moss-grown 
bushes. To him Mr. Touchwood called loudly, inquiring after 
his master ; but the clown, conscious of being taken in flagrant 
delict; as the‘law says, fled from him like a guilty thing, instead 
of obeying his summons, and was soon heard Aupping and 
gecing to the cart, which he had left on the other side of the 
broken wall. 

Disappointed in his application to the man-servant, Mr. 
Touchwood knocked with his cane, at first gently, then harder, 
hallooed, bellowed, and shouted, in the hope of calling the 
attention of some one within doors, but received not a word in 
reply. At length, thinking that no trespass could be committed 
upon so forlorn and deserted an establishment, he removed 
the obstacles to entrance with such a noise as he thought must 
necessarily have alarmed some one, if there was any live per- 
son about the house at all. All was still silent; and, entering 
a passage where the damp walls and broken flags corresponded 
to the appearance of things out of doors, he opened a door to 
the left, which, wonderful to say, still had a latch remaining, 
and found himself in the parlor, and in the presence of the 
person whom he came to visit. 

Amid a heap of books and other literary lumber, which had ac- 
cumulated around him, sat, in his well-worn leathern elbow-chair, 
the learned minister of St. Ronan’s; a thin, spare man, beyond 
the middle age, of a dark complexion, but with eyes which, 
though now obscured and vacant, had been once bright, soft, 
and expressive, and whose features seemed interesting, the 
rather that, notwithstandiing the carelessness of his dress, he was 
in the habit of performing his ablutions with Eastern precision ; 
for he had forgot neatness, but not cleanliness. | His hair might 
have appeared much more disorderly, had it not been thinned by 
time, and disposed chiefly around the sides of his countenance 
and the back part of his head ; black stockings, ungartered, 
marked his professional dress, and his feet were thrust into old 
slip-shod shoes, which served him instead of slippers. The rest 
of his garments, so far as visible, consisted in a plaid nightgown 
wrapt in long folds round his stooping and emaciated length 
of body, and reaching down to'the’slippers aforesaid. He was 
so intently engaged in studying the book before him, a folio of 
no ordinary bulk, that he totally disregarded the noise which 


164 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


Mr. Touchwood made in entering the room, as well as the 
coughs and hems with which he thought it proper to announce his 
presence. 

No notice being taken of these inarticulate signals, Mr. 
Touchwood, however great an enemy he was to ceremony, saw 
the necessity of on Rowe st: his business, as an apology for his 
intrusion. 

‘Hem ! sir—Ha, hem !—You see before you a person in 
some distress for want of society, who has taken the liberty to 
call on you as a good pastor, who may be, in Christian: charity, 
willing to afford him a little of your company, since he is «tired 
of his own.” 

Of this speech Mr. Cargill only understood the words.“ dis- 
tress”? and “ charity,”’ sounds with which he was well acquainted, 
and which never failed to produce some effect upon him. He 
looked at his visitor with lack-lustre eye, and, without correcting 
the first opinion which he had formed, although the stranger’s 
plump and sturdy frame, as well as his nicely-brushed coat, glanc- 
ing cane, and, above all, his upright and self-satisfied manner 
resembled in no respect the dress, form, or bearing of a mendi- 
cant, he quietly thrust a shilling into his hand, and relapsed into 
the studious contemplation which the entrance of TTouchwood 
had interrupted. 

‘“* Upon my word, my good sir,” said his visitor, surprised at 
a degree of absence of mind which he could hardly have con- 
ceived possible, “ you have entirely mistaken my object.” 

‘“T am sorry my mite is insufficient, my friend,” said the 
clergyman, without again raising his eyes, ‘ it is all I have at 
present to bestow.” 

“If you will have the kindness to look up for a moment, my 
good sir,” said the traveler, ““you may possibly perceive that 
you labor under a considerable mistake.” 

Mr. Cargill raised his heavJ, recalled his attention, and, seeing 
that he had a well-dressed, respectable-looking person before 
him, he exclaimed in much confusion, ‘‘ Ha !—yes—on my 
word, I was so immersed in my book—I believe—I think I 
have the pleasure to see my worthy friend, Mr. Lavender?” 

‘“No such thing, Mr. Cargill,” replied Mr. Touchwood. ‘I 
will save you the trouble of trying to recollect me—you never 
saw me before.—But do not let me disturb your studies—I 
am in no hurry, and my business can wait your leisure.” 

‘‘T am much obliged,” said Mr. Cargill ; “ have the good- 
ness to take a chair, if you can find one—I have a train of thought 


to recover—a slight calculation to finish—and then I am at 
your,command.,” 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 165 


‘The visitor found among the broken furniture, not without 
difficulty, a seat strong enough to support his weight, and sat 
down, resting upon his cane, and looking attentively at his host, 
who very soon became totally insensible of his presence. A 
long pause of total silence ensued, only disturbed by the rustling 
leaves of the folio from which Mr. Cargill seemed to be making 
extracts, and now and then by a little ‘exclamation of surprise 
and impatience, when he dipped his pen, as happened once or 
twice, into his snuff-box, instead of the ink-standish which stood 
beside it. At length, just as Mr. Touchwood began to think the 
scene as tedious as it wassingular, the abstracted student raised 
his head, and spoke as if in soliloquy, ‘‘From Acon, Accor, 
or St. John d’Acre, to Jerusalem, how far ?.” 

“Twenty-three miles north north-west,” answered his visitor 
without hesitation. 

Mr. Cargill expressed no more surprise at a question which 
he had put to himself being answered by the voice of another, 
than if he had found the distance on the map, and, indeed, was 
not probably aware of medium through which his question had 
been solved ; andit was the tenor of the answer alone which he 
attended to in his reply.—‘‘ Twenty-three miles—Ingulphus,”’ 
laying his hand on the volume, “ and Jeffrey Winesauf do not 
agree in this.” 

“ They may both be d—d, then, for lying blockheads,” 
answered the traveler. 

“You might have contradicted their authority, sir, without 
using such an expression,” said the divine, gravely. 

“YT cry you mercy, Doctor,” said Mr. Touchwood; “but 
would you compare these parchment fellows'with me, that 
have made my legs my compasses over great part of the in- 
habited world?” 

“You have been in Palestine, then?” said Mr. Cargill, 
drawing himself upright in his chair, and speaking with eager- 
ness and with interest. 

‘*You may swear that, Doctor, and at Acre too. Why, I 
was there the month after Boney had found it too hard a nut 
to crack.—I dined with Sir Sydney’s chum, old Djezzar Pacha, 
and an excellent dinner we had, but for a dessert of noses and 
ears brought on after the last remove, which spoiled my diges- 
tion. Old Djezzar thought it so good a joke, that you hardly 
saw aman in Acre whose face was not as flat as the palm of 
my Hand—Gad, I respect my olfactory organ, and set off the 
next morning as fast as the most cursed hard-trotting drome- 
dary that ever fell to’ poor -pilgrim’s lot. could contrive to 
tramp.” 


166 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“If you have really been in the Holy Land, sir,” said Mr. 
Cargill, whom the reckless gayety of Touchwood’s manner 
rendered somewhat suspicious of a trick, ‘‘you will be able 
materially to enlighten me on the subject of the Crusades.” 

“They happened before my time, Doctor,” replied the 
traveler. 

“You are to understand that my curiosity refers to the 
geography of the countries where these events took place,” 
answered Mr. Cargill. 

“Oh! as to that matter you are lighted on your feet,” said 
Mr. Touchwood; “for the time present I can fit you. Turk, 
Arab, Copt, and Druse, I know every one of them, and: can 
make you as well acquainted with them as myself. Without 
stirring a step beyond your threshold, you shall know Syria as 
well as I do.—But one good turn deserves another—in that 
case, you must have the goodness to dine with me.” 

“I go seldom abroad, sir,” said the minister, with a good 
deal of hesitation, for his habits of solitude and seclusion could 
not be entirely overcome, even by the expectation raised by 


the traveler’s discourse; “yet I cannot deny myself the 
pleasure of waiting on a gentleman possessed of so much 
experience.’ . 


“Well, then,” said Mr. Touchwood, “three be the spe 
never dine later, and always to the minute—and the place, the 
Cleikum Inn, up the way; where Mrs. Dods is at this moment 
busy in making ready such a dinneras your learning has seldom 
seen, Doctor, for I brought the receipts from the four chifqrent 
quarters of the globe.” 

Upon this treaty they parted ; and Mr Cargill, after musing 
for a short while upon the singular chance which had sent a 
living man to answer those doubts, for which he was in vain 
consulting ancient authorities, at length resumed, by degrees, 
the train of reflection and investigation which Mr. Touchwood’s 
visit had interrupted, and in a short time lost all recollection 
of his episodical visitor, and of the engagement which he had 
formed. 
Not so Mr. Touchwood, who, when not occupied with busi- 
ness of real importance, had the art, as the reader may have 
observed, to make a prodigious fuss about nothing at all. 
Upon the present occasion, he bustled in and out of the - kitchen, 
till Mrs. Dods lost patience, and threatened to pin the dishclout 
to his tail; a menace which he pardoned, in consideration; that 
in all the countries which he had visited, which are sufficiently 
civilized to boast of cooks, these artists, toiling in their fiery 
element, have a privilege to be testy and impatient, He there; 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. “167 


fore retreated from the torrid region of Mrs. Dods’s microcosm, 
and employed his time in the usual devices of loiterers, partly 
by walking for an appetite, partly by observing the progress of 
his watch toward three o’clock, when he had happily. succeeded 
in getting an employment more serious. His table in the blue 
parlor, was displayed with two covers, after the fairest fashion 
of the Cleikum Inn; yet the landlady, with a look “ civil but 
sly,” contrived to insinuate a doubt whether the clergyman 
would come, “ when a’ was dune.” 

Mr. Touchwood scorned to listen to such an insinuation until 
the fated hour arrived, and brought with it no Mr. Cargill. 
The impatient entertainer allowed five minutes for difference of 
clocks, and variation of time, and other five for the procrastina- 
tion of one who went little into society. But no sooner -were 
the last five minutes expended than he darted off for the Manse, 
not, indeed, much like a grayhound: or a deer, but with the 
momentum of a corpulent and well-appetized elderly gentleman, 
who is in haste to secure his dinner. He bounced.without 
ceremony into the parlor, where he found the worthy divine 
clothed in the same plaid. nightgown, and seated in the. very 
_same elbow-chair, in which he had left him five’ hours, before. 
His sudden entrance recalled to Mr. Cargill, not an accurate, 
but something of a general recollection, of what had passed in 
the morning, and he hastened to apologize with “ Ha !~indeed 
—already ?—upon my word, Mr. A—a—, I mean my dear 
friend—I am afraid I have used you ill—I forgot. to order any 
dinner—but we will do our best.. Eppie—Eppie!.” 

Not at the first, second, nor third call, but ex znzfervallo, as 
the lawyers express it, Eppie, a bare- legged, shock-headed, 
_thick-ankled, red-armed wench, entered, and. announced. her 
presence by an emphatic “ What’s your wull?” 

““ Have you got anything in the house for dinner, Eppie?”’ 

“ Naething but bread and milk, plenty o’t—what should I 
have?” 

“You see, sir,” said Mr. Cargill, ‘you are like, to have a 
Pythagorean entertainment ; but you are a traveler, and, have 
doubtless been.in your time thankful for bread and milk.” 

‘‘ But never when there was anything better to be had,” said 
Mr. ‘Youchwood. ‘‘ Come, Doctor, I beg your pardon, but your 
wits are fairly gone a wool-gathering ; it was I invited yow to 
dinner, up at the Inn yonder, not you me,” S 

“ On my word, and so it was,” said Mr.. Cargill; ‘‘I knew I 
was quite right—I knew there was a dinner engagement betwixt 
_us, I was sure of that, and that is the main,,point.—-Come, sir, 
I wait upon you,” | 


168 ST, RONAN’S WELL, 


“ Will you not first change your dress?” said the visitor, 
seeing with astonishment that the divine proposed to attend 
him in his plaid nightgown ; “‘ why, we shall have all the boys 
in the village after us— you will look like an owl in sunshine, 
and they will flock round you like so many hedge sparrows.” 

“‘T will get my clothes instantly,” said the worthy clergy- 
man: “I will get ready directly—I am really ashamed to keep 
you waiting, my dear Mr.—eh—eh—your name has this instant 
escaped me.” 

“It is Touchwood, sir, at your service; I do not believe you 
ever heard it before,” answered the traveler. 

“ True—right—no more I have—well, my good Mr. Touch- 
stone, will you sit down an instant until we see what we can 
do ?—strange slaves we make ourselves to these bodies of ours, 
Mr. Touchstone—the clothing and the sustaining of them costs 
us much thought and leisure, which might be better employed 
in catering for the wants of our immortal spirits.” 

Mr. Touchwood thought in his heart that never had Brah- 
min or Gymnosophist less reason to reproach himself with ex- 
cess in the indulgence of the table, or of the toilette, than the 
sage before him; but he assented to the doctrine, as he would 
have done to any minor heresy, rather than protract matters by 
further discussing the point at present. In a short time the 
minister was dressed in his Sunday’s suit without any further 
mistake than turning one of his black stockings inside out; 
and Mr. Touchwood, happy as was Boswell when he carried off 
Dr. Johnson in triumph to dine with Strachan and John 
Wilkes, had the pleasure of escorting him to the Cleikum Inn. 

In the course of the afternoon they became more familiar, 
and the familiarity led to their forming a considerable estimate 
of each other’s powers and acquirements. It is true, the 
traveler thought the student too pedantic, too much attached 
to systems, which, formed in solitude, he was unwilling to 
renounce, whenever contradicted by the voice and testimony of 
experience; and, moreover, considered his utter inattention to 
the quality of what he ate and drank, as unworthy of a rational, 
that is, of a cooking creature, or of a being who, as defined 
by Johnson, holds his dinner as the most important business of 
the day. Cargill did not act up to this definition, and was, 
therefore, in the eyes of his new acquaintance, so far ignorant 
and uncivilized. What then? He was still a sensible, intelli- 
gent man, however abstemious and bookish. 

On the other hand, the divine could not help regarding his 
new friend as something of an epicure or belly-god, nor could 
he observe in him either the perfect education, or the polished 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 169 


bearing, which mark the gentleman of rank, and of which, 
while he mingled with the world, he had become a competent 
judge. Neither did it escape him, that in the catalogue of Mr. 
Touchwood’s defects, occurred that of many travelers, a slight 
disposition to exaggerate his own personal adventures, and te 
prose concerning his own exploits. But then his acquaintance 
with Eastern manners, existing now in the same state in which 
they were found during the time of the Crusades, formed a 
living commentary on the works of William of Tyre, Raymund 
of Saint Giles, the Moslem annals of Abulfaragi, and other his- 
torians of the dark period, with which his studies were at pres- 
ent occupied. 

A friendship, a companionship at least, was therefore struck 
‘up hastily betwixt these two originals ; and, to the astonishment 
of the whole parish of St. Ronan’s, the minister thereof was 
seen once more leagued and united with an individual of his 
species, generally called among them the Cleikum Nabob. Their 
intercourse sometimes consisted in long walks, which they took 
in company, traversing, however, as limited a space of ground, 
as if it had been actually roped in for their pedestrian exercise. 
Their parade was, according to circumstances, a low haugh at 
the nether end of the ruinous hamlet, or the esplanade in front 
of the old castle ; and, in either case, the direct longitude of 
their promenade never exceeded a hundred yards. Sometimes, 
but rarely, the divine took share of Mr. Touchwood’s meal, 
though less splendidly set forth than when he was first invited 
to partake of it ; for, like the unostentatious owner of the gold 
cup in Parnell’s Hermit, 


—‘ Still he welcomed, but with less of cost.” 


On these occasions the conversation was not of the regular and 
compacted nature which passes betwixt men, as they are ordin- 
arily termed, of this-world. On the contrary, the one party 
was often thinking of Saladin and Coeur de Lion, when the 
other was haranguing on Hyder Ali and‘Sir Eyre Coote. Still, 
however, the one spoke, and the other seemed to listen ; and, 
perhaps, the lighter intercourse of society, where amusement is 
the sole object, can scarcely rest on a safer and more secure 
basis. 

It was on one of the evenings when the learned divine had 
taken his place at Mr. Totichwood’s social board, or rather at 
Mrs. Dods’s,—for a cup of excellent tea, the only luxury which 
Mr. Cargill continued to partake of with some complacence, 
was the regale before them,—that a card was delivered to the 
Nabob, 


pr 


170 ST: RONAN’S WELL, 


“Mr. and Miss Mowbray see company at Shaws Castle on 
the twentieth current, at two o’clock—déetiner—dresses in 
character admitted—A dramatic picture.”—‘ See company ? 
the more fools they,’”’ he continued, by way of comment.  ‘“‘ See 
company ?——choice phrases are ever commendable—and this 
piece of pasteboard is to intimate that one may. go and, meetall 
the fools of the. parish, if they have a mind—in my _ time they 
asked the honor, or the pleasure, of a stranger’s company. I 
suppose, by and by, we shall have in this.country the cere- 
monial of'a Bedouin’s tent, where every ragged Hadgi, with his 
green turban, comes in slap without leave asked, and has his 
black paw among the rice, with no other apology than Salam 
Alicum.—‘ Dresses in character—Dramatic picture ’—-what new 
tomfoolery can that be ?—but it does not signify.—Doctor ! ..I- 
say, Doctor !—but he is in the seventh heaven—I say, Mother 
Dods, you who know all the news—Is this the feast that was 
put off until Miss Mowbray should be better ? ” 

“ ‘Troth is it, Maister Touchwood—they are no. in the way 
of giving twa entertainments in one. season—no very, wise to 
gie ane maybe—but they ken best.” 

“I say, Doctor, Doctor, !—Bless his,five wits, he is charging 
the Moslemah with stout King Richard—lI say, Doctor, do you 
know anything of these Mowbrays ?.” 

“ Nothing extremely particular,” answered Mr, Cargill, 
after a pause ; “ it is an ordinary tale of greatness, which blazes 
in one century, and is extinguished in the next, I think Cam- 
den says, that Thomas Mowbray, who ‘was Grand-Marshal of 
England, succeeded to that high office, as well as to the Duke- 
dom of Norfolk, as grandson of Roger Bigot, in 1301.” 

‘“‘ Pshaw, man, you are back into the fourteenth century—I 
mean these Mowbrays of.St. Ronan’s—-now, don’t fall asleep 
again until you have answered my question—~and don’t look so 
like a startled hare—I am speaking no treason.’ 

The clergyman floundered a moment, as is usual with an 
absent man) who is recovering the train of his ideas, or a som- 
nambulist when he is suddenly awakened, and then answered, 
still with hesitation,— 

> “ Mowbray of St, Ronan’s !—ha—eh—I know—that i is —I 
did know the family.” 

“Here they are going to give a masquerade,.a dal pare, 
private theatricals, I think, and what not,” handing him dhe 
card. 

«“I.saw something of this a fortnight ago,’ said Mr. Garcon 
“ indeed, I either hada ticket myself, or I\saw,such a one.as 
that.” | 


~ 


ST: RONAN’S WELL. Vt 


- “ Are you sure you did not attend the party, Doctor:?.” said - 
the Nabob. | | 

‘Who attend ? I? you are jesting, Mr. 'Touchwood.” 

“ But are you quite positive ?”’? demanded Mr. ‘Touchwood, 
who had observed, to his infinite amusement, that the learned 
and abstracted scholar was.so conscious of his own peculiarities, 
as never to be' very sure on any such subject. 

“* Positive !”’ he repeated with embarrassment ; “my memory » 
is so wretched that I never like to be positive—but had I done 
anything so far out of my usual way, I must have remembered 
it, one would think—and—I am positive I was not there.” 

‘Neither could you, Doctor,” said the Nabob, laughing at 
the process by which his friend reasoned himself into confi- 
dence; “for it did not take place—it was adjourned, and this ° 
is the second invitation—there will be one for you, as you had 
a card to the former.—Come, Doctor, you must go—you and I 
will go together—I as an Imaum—I can say my Bismillah 
with any Hadgi of them all—You as a cardinal, or what you 
like best.” 

“Who, I ?—it is unbecoming my station, Mr. Touchwood,” 
said the clergyman—“ a folly altogether inconsistent with my 
habits.” 

“All the better—you shall change your habits.” 

* You had better gang up and see them, Mr. Cargill,” said 
Mrs. Dods ; “ for it’s maybe the last sight ye may see of Miss 
Mowbray—they say she isto be married and off to England 
ane of thae odd-come-shortlies, wi’ some of the gowks about the 
Waal down by.” 

“Married!” said the clergyman; ‘‘it is impossible.” 

“But where’s the impossibility, Mr. Cargill, when ye see folk 
marry every day, and buckle them yoursell into the bargain ?— | 
Maybe ye think the puir lassie has a bee in her bannet; but 
ye ken yoursell if naebody but wise folk were to marry, the 
warld wad be ill peopled. I think it’s the wise folk that keep » 
single, like yoursell and: me, Mr. Cargill.—Gude guide us !— 
are ye weel ?—will ye taste a drap o’ something?” 

“ Sniff at my otto of roses,” said Mr. Touchwood ; ‘the 
scent would revive the dead—why, what in the devil’s name is 
the meaning of this ?—-you were quite well just now.” 

“A sudden qualm,” said Mr. Cargill, recovering himself. 

“Oh! Mr. Cargill,” said Dame Dods, “ this comes of your 
lang fasts.” 

“Right, dame,” subjoined Mr. Touchwood; “and of break- 
ing them with sour milk and pease bannock—the least morsel 
of Christian food is rejected by the stomach, just as a small 


4 


172 ST: RONAN’S WELL. 


gentleman refuses the visit of a creditable neighbor, lest he see 
the nakedness of the land—-ha ! ha!” 

‘“‘ And there is really a talk of Miss Mowbray of St. Ronan’s 
being married ?”’ said the clergyman. 

‘“Troth is there,” said the dame ; “it’s Trotting Nelly’s 
news ; and though she likes a drappie, I dinna think she would . 
invent a lee or carry ane—at least to me, that ama gude cus- 
tomer.” 

‘This must be looked to,” said. Mr. Cargill, as if speaking 
to himself. 

“In troth, and so it should,” said Dame Dods ; “it’s a sin 
and a shame if they should employ the tinkling cymbal they 
ca’ Chatterly, and sic a Presbyterian trumpet as yoursell in 
the land, Mr. Cargill; and if ye will take a fule’s advice, ye 
winna let the multure be ta’en by your ain mill, Mr. Cargill.” 

True, true, good Mother Dods,’’ said the Nabob; ‘“‘ gloves 
and hat-bands are things to be looked after; and Mr. Cargill 
had better go down to this cursed festivity with me, in order to 
see after his own interest.” 

“T must speak with the young lady,” said the clergyman, 
still in a brown study. 

“Right, right, my boy of blackletter,” said the Nabob; 
“‘ with me you shall go, and we’ll bring them to submission to 
mother-church, I warrant you—Why, the idea of being cheated 
in such a way, would scare a Santon * out of his trance.—What 
dress will you wear?” 

‘* My own, to be sure,” said the divine, starting from his 
reverie. 

“True, thou art right again—they may want to knit the 
knot on the spot, and who would be married by a parson in 
masquerade ?>—We go to the entertainment though—it is a done 
thing.” } 

The clergyman assented, provided he should receive an in- 
vitation ; and as that was found at the Manse, he had no ex 
cuse for retracting, even if he had seemed to desire one. 


* [Mahommedan hermit or enthusiast.] 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 173 


CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. 
FORTUNE’S FROLICS. 


Count Basset.—We gentlemen, whose carriages run on the four aces, 
are apt to havea wheel out of order. 
THE PROVOKED HUSBAND, 


Ovr history must now look alittle backward ; and although 
it is rather foreign to our natural style of composition, it must 
speak more in narrative, and less in dialogue, rather telling 
what happened, than its effects upon the actors. Our promise, 
however, is only conditional, for we foresee temptations which 
may render it difficult for us exactly to keep it. 

The arrival of the young Earl of Etherington at the salutif- 
erous fountain of St. Ronan’s had produced the strongest 
sensation ; especially, as it was joined with the singular acci- 
dent of the attempt upon his lordship’s person, as he took a: 
short cut through the woods upon foot, at a distance from his 
equipage and servants. ‘The gallantry with which he beat off 
the highwayman, was only equal to his generosity; for he 
declined making any researches after the poor devil, although 
his lordship had received a severe wound in the scuffle. 

Of the ‘‘ three black Graces,” as they have been termed by 
one of the most pleasing companions of our time, Law and 
Physic hastened to do homage to Lord Etherington, repre- 
sented by Mr. Meiklewham and Dr. Quackleben, while Divin- 
ity, as favorable, though more coy, in the person of the 
Reverend Mr. Simon Chatterly, stood on tiptoe to offer any 
service in her power. 

For the honorable reason already assigned, his lordship, 
after thanking Mr. Meiklewham, and hinting, that he might 
have different occasion for his services, declined his offer to 
search out the delinquent by whom he had been wounded ; 
while to the care of the Doctor he subjected the cure of a smart 
flesh-wound in the arm, together with a slight scratch on the 
temple ; and so very genteel was his behavior on the occasion, 
that the Doctor, in his anxiety for his safety, enjoined him 
a month’s course of the waters, if he would enjoy the comfort 
of a complete and perfect recovery. Nothing so frequent, he 
could assure his lordship, as the opening of cicatrised wounds; 


ry 4" ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


and the waters of St. Ronan’s spring being, according to Dr. 
Quackleben, a remedy for all the troubles which flesh is heir 


to, could not fail to equal those of Barege, in facilitating the © 


discharge of all splinters or extraneous matter, which a bullet 
may chance to incorporate with the human frame, to its great 
annoyance. For he was wont to Say, that although he could 
not declare the waters which he patronized to be an absolute 
panpharmacon, yet he would with word and pen maintain, 
that they possessed the principal virtues of the most celebrated 
medicinal springs in the known world. In short, the love of 
Alpheus for Arethusa was a mere jest, compared to that which 
the Doctor entertained for his favorite fountain. 

The new and noble guest, whose arrival so much illustrated 
these scenes of convalescence and of gayety, was not at first seen 
so'much at the. ordinary, and other places of public resort, as 
had been the hope of the worthy company assembled. His 
health and his wound proved an excuse for making his visits to 
the society few and far between. 

But when he did appear, his manners and person were in- 
finitely captivating ; and even the carnation-colored silk hand- 
kerchief, which suspended his wounded arm, together with the 
-paleness and. languor which loss of blood had left on his hand- 
some and open countenance, gave a grace to the whole person, 
which »many of the ladies declared irresistible. All contended 
for his notice, attracted at once by his affability, and piqued by 
the calm and easy nonchalance with which it seemed to be 
blended... The scheming and selfish Mowbray, the coarse- 
minded and brutal Sir: Bingo, accustomed to consider them- 
selves, and to be considered, as the first men of the party, sunk 
into. comparative insignificance. But chiefly Lady Penelope 
threw out the captivations of her wit and her literature ; while 
Lady Binks, trusting to her natural charms, endeavored 
equally to attract his notice. The other nymphs of the Spa 
held a little back, upon the principle of that politeness, which, 
at) continental hunting parties, affords the first shot at a fine 
piece of game to the person of the highest rank present; ‘but 
the thought throbbed in many a fair bosom, that their ladyships 
might miss their aim, in spite of the advantages thus allowed 
them, and that there might then be room for less exalted, but 
perhaps not less skilful markswomen, to try their chance. 

But while the Earl thus withdrew from public society, it 
was necessary, at least natural, that he should choose some one 
with whom to‘share the solitude of his own apartment ; and 
Mowbray, superior in rank to the half-pay whisky-drinking Cap: 


tain MacTurk—in dash to Winterblossom, who was broken. 


a 


ST. RONAN’S WELT. 198 


down, and turned twaddler—and in tact and sense to Sir Bingo 
Binks—easily manceuvred himself into his lordship’s more inti- 
mate society ; and internally thanking the honest footpad, whose 
bullet had been the indirect means of secluding his intended 
victim from all society but his own, he gradually began to feel 
the way, and prove the strength of his antagonist, at the 
various games of skill and hazard which he introduced, appar- 
ently with the sole purpose of relieving the tedium of a sick- 
chamber. 

Meiklewham, who felt, or affected, the greatest possible in- 
terest in his patron’s success, and who watched every oppor- 
tunity to inquire how his schemes advanced, received at first 
such favorable accounts as made him grin from ear to ear, rub 
his hands, and chuckle forth such bursts of glee as only the 
success of triumphant roguery could have extorted from him. 
Mowbray looked grave, however, and checked his mirth. 

“There was something in it after all,’ he said, “that he 
could not perfectly understand. Etherington, a used hand— 
d—d sharp—up to everything, and yet he lost his money like 
a baby.” 

“And what the matter how he loses it, so you win it like a 
man ?”’ said his legal friend and adviser. 

“ Why, hang it, I cannot tell,” replied Mowbray—“ were it 
not that I think he has scarce the impudence to propose such 
a thing to succeed, curse me but [ should think he was coming 
the old soldier over me, and keeping up his game.—But no—he 
can scarce have the impudence to think of that.—I find, how- 
ever, that he has done Wolverine—cleaned out poor Tom— 
though Tom wrote to me the precise contrary, yet the truth has 
since come out—Well, I shall avenge him, for I see his lord- 
ship is to be had as well as other folks.” 

‘* Weel, Mr. Mowbray,” said the lawyer, in a tone of affected 
sympathy, ‘‘ ye ken your own ways best—but the heavens. will 
bless a moderate mind. I would not like to see you ruin this 
poor lad, funditus, that is tosay, out and out.—To lose some of 
the ready will do him no great harm, and maybe give him a les- 
son he may be the better of as long as he lives—but I wad 
not, as an honest man, wish you to go deeper—you should spare 
the lad, Mr.. Mowbray.” 

“Who. spared me, Meiklewham?” said Mowbray, with a 
look and tone of deepemphasis—‘‘ No, no—he must go through 
the mill—money and money’s worth.—His seat is called Oaken- 
dale—think of that, Mick—Oakendale! Oh, name of thrice 
happy augury!—Speak not of mercy, Mick—the squirrels of 
Oakendale must be dismounted, and learn to go a-foot,—What 


176 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


mercy can the wandering lord of Troy expect among the Greeks? 
—The Greeks !—I am a very Suliote—the bravest of Greeks. 


‘T think not of pity, I think not of fear, 
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier.’ 


And necessity, Mick,” he concluded, with a tone something al- 
tered, ‘‘ necessity is as unrelenting a leader as any Vizier or 
Pacha, whom Scanderbeg ever fought with, or Byron has sung.” 

Meiklewham echoed his patron’s ejaculation with a sound 
betwixt a whine, a chuckle, and a groan; the first being de- 
signed to express his pretended pity for the destined victim ; 
the second his sympathy with his patron’s prospects of success ; 
and the third being a whistle admonitory of the dangerous 
courses through which his object was to be pursued. 

Suliote as he boasted himself, Mowbray had, soon after this 
conversation, some reason to admit that, 


** When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war,” 


The light skirmishing betwixt the parties was ended and the 
serious battle commenced with some caution on either side ; 
each perhaps desirous of being master of his opponent’s system 
of tactics, before exposing his own. Piquet, the most beautiful 
game at which a man can make sacrifice of his fortune, was 
one with which Mowbray had, for his misfortune perhaps, been 
accounted, from an early age, a great proficient, and in which 
the Earl of Etherington, with less experience, proved no novice. 
They now played for such stakes as Mowbray’s state of fortune 
rendered considerable to him, though his antagonist appeared 
not to regard the amount. And they played with various suc- 
cess ; for, though Mowbray at times returned with a smile of 
confidence the inquiring looks of his friend Meiklewham, there 
were other: occasions on which he seemed to evade them, as if 
his own had a sad confession to make in reply. 

These alternations, though frequent, did not occupy, after 
all, many days; for Mowbray, a friend of all hours, spent much 
of his time in Lord Etherington’s apartment, and these few 
days were days of battle. In the meantime, as his lordship was 
now sufficiently recovered to join the party at Shaws Castle, 
and Miss Mowbray’s health being announced as restored, that 
proposal was renewed, with the addition of a dramatic enter- 
tainment, the nature of which we shall afterward have occasion 
to explain. Cards were anew issued to all those who had been 
formerly included in the invitation, and of course to Mr. Touch- 
wood, as formerly a resident at the Well, and now in the neigh- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 179 


borhood ; it being previously agreed among the ladies, that a 
Nabob, though sometimes a dingy or damaged commodity, was 
not to be rashly or unnecessarily neglected. As to the parson 
he had been asked, of course, as an old acquaintance of the 
Mowbray house, not to be left out when the friends of the 
family were invited on a great scale; but his habits were well 
known, and it was no more expected that he would leave his 
manse on such an occasion, than that the kirk should loosen 
itself from its foundations. 

It was after these arrangements had been made, that the 
Laird of St. Ronan’s suddenly entered Meiklewham’s private 
apartment with looks of exultation. The worthy scribe turned 
his spectacled nose toward his patron, and holding in one 
hand the bunch of papers which he had just been perusing, 
and in the other the tape with which he was about to tie them 
up again, suspended that operation to await with open eyes and 
ears the communication of Mowbray. 

““T have done him!” he said, exultingly, yet in a tone of 
voice lowered almost to a whisper; ‘‘capoted his lordship for 
this bout—doubled my capital, Mick, and something more.— 
Hush, don’t interrupt me—we must think of Clara now—she 
must share the sunshine, should it prove but a blink before a 
storm.—You know, Mick, these two d—d women, Lady Pene- 
lope and the Binks, have settled that they will have something 
like a da/ paré on this occasion, a sort of theatrical exhibition, 
and that those who like it shall be dressed in character.—I 
know their meaning—they think Clara has no dress fit for such 
foolery, and so they hope to eclipse her; Lady Pen, with her 
old-fashioned ill-set diamonds, and my Lady Binks, with the 
new-fashioned finery which she swopt her character for. But 
Ctara shan’t be borne down so, by ! I got that affected 
slut, Lady Binks’s maid, to tell me what her mistress had set 
her mind on, and she is to wear a Grecian habit, forsooth, like 
one of Will Allan’s Eastern subjects.—But here’s the rub— 
there is only one shawl for sale in Edinburgh that is worth 
showing off in, and that is at the Gallery of Fashion.—Now, 
Mick, my friend, that shawl must be had for Clara, with the 
other trankums of muslin, and lace, and so forth, which you 
- will find marked in the paper there.—Send instantly and secure 
it, for, as Lady Binks writes by to-morrow’s post, your order 
can go by to-night’s mail—There is a note for £100.” 

From a mechanical habit of never refusing anything, Meikle- 
wham readily took the note, but having looked at it through 
his spectacles, he continued to hold it in his handas he remon- 
strated with his patron—“ This is a’ very kindly meant, St. 


178 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


Ronan’s—very kindly meant; and I wad be the last to say that 
Miss Clara does not merit respect and kindness at your hand; 
but- I doubt mickle if she wad care a bodle for thae braw 
things. Ye ken yoursell, she seldom alters her fashions. Od, 
she thinks her riding-habit dress eneugh for ony company; and 


if you were ganging by good looks, so’ it is—if she had a 


thought mair color, poor dear.” 

Be “Well, well,” said Mowbray, impatiently, ‘S let me alone to 
reconcile a woman and a fine dress.”’ 

‘To be sure, ye ken best,” said the writer; ‘but, after a’, 
now, wad it no be better to lay by this hundred pound in Tam 
Turnpenny’ s, in case the young lady should want it afterhand, 
just for a sair foot?” 


“You are a fool, Mick; what signifies healing a sore foot! 


when there will be a broken heart in the case ?—No, no—get 
the things as I desire you—we will blaze them down for one 
day at least; perhaps it will be the beginning of a proper 
dash.” 


“Weel, weel, I wish it may be so,” answered: Meiklewham ; 


“but this young Earl—hae ye found the weak point ?—Can ye 
get a decerniture against him, with expenses ?—that is the 
question.” . 
‘“*T wish I could answer it,” said Mowbray thoughtfully— 
“Confound the fellow—he is a cut above me in rank and in 
society too—belongs to the great clubs, and is in with the Super- 
latives and Inaccessibles, and all that sort of folk—My train- 
ing has been a peg lower—but, hang it, there are better 
dogs bred in the kennel than in the parlor. I am up to him, I 
think—at least I will soon know, Mick, whether I am or no, 
and that is always one comfort. Never mind—do you execute 


my commission, and take care you name no names—I must 


save my little Abigail’s reputation.” 


They parted, “Meiklewham to execute his patron’s com! 


mission—his patron to bring to the test those hopes, the 
uncertainty of which he could not disguise from his own 
sagacity. 


Trusting to the continuance of his run of luck, Mowbray 


resolved to bring affairs to a crisis that same evening. | Every- 


thing seemed in the outset to favor his purpose. They had 


dined together in Lord Etherington’s apartments—his state of 


health interfered with the circulation of the bottle, and a drizzly 


autumnal evening rendered walking disagreeable, even had 
they gone no further than the private stable where Lord ‘Ether- 
ington’s horses were kept, under the care of a groom of superior 
skill, Cards were naturally, almost necessarily, resorted to as 


a ioe 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 170 


the only alternative for helping away the evening, and piquet 
was, as formerly, chosen for the game. . 

Lord Etherington seemed at first indolently careless and 
indifferent about his play, suffering advantages to escape him, 
of which, in a more attentive state of mind, he could not have 
failed to avail himself. Mowbray upbraided him with his in- 
attention, and proposed a deeper stake, in order to interest 
him. The young nobleman complied; and in the course of a 
few hands, the gamesters became both deeply engaged in watch- 
ing and profiting by the changes of fortune. These were so 
many, so varied, and so unexpected, that the very souls of the 
players seemed at length centred in the event of the struggle ; 
and, by dint of doubling stakes, the accumulated sum of a 
thousand pounds and upward, upon’ each side, came to be 
staked in the issue of the game.—So large a risk included all 
those funds which Mowbray commanded by his sister’s kind- 
ness, and nearly all his previous winnings, so to him the alter- 
native was victory or ruin. He could not hide his agitation, 
‘however desirous to do so. He drank wine to supply himself 
with courage—he drank water to cool his agitation; and at 
length bent himself to play with as much care and attention as 
he felt himself enabled to command. 

In the first part of the game their luck appeared tolerably 
equal, and the play of both befitting gamesters who had dared 
to place such a sum on the cast. But, as it drew toward a con- 
clusion, fortune altogether deserted him who stood most in 
need of her favor, and Mowbray, with silent despair, saw his 
fate depend on a single trick, and that with every odds against 
him, for Lord Etherington was elder hand. But how can for- 
tune’s favor secure any one who is not true to himself ?—By an 
infraction of the laws of the game, which could only have been 
expected from the veriest bungler that ever touched a card, 
Lord Etherington called.a point without showing it, and, by the 
ordinary rule, Mowbray was entitled to count his ewn—and in 
«the course of that and the next hand, gained the game and 
swept the stakes. Lord Etherington showed chagrin and dis- 
pleasure, and seemed to think that the rigor of the game had 
been more insisted upon than in courtesy it ought to have been, 
when men were playing for so small a stake. Mowbray did rot 
-understand this logic. A thousand pounds, he. said, were in 
his eyes no nutshell; the rules of piquet were insisted on by 
all but boys and women; and, for his part, he had rather not 
‘play‘at all than not play the game. 

“So. it would seem, my dear Mowbray,” said the Earl; “for, 
on my soul, I never saw so disconsolate a visage as thine dur- 


180 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


ing that unlucky game—it withdrew all my attention from my 
hand ; and I may safely say your rueful countenance has stood 
me in a thousand pounds. If I could transfer thy long visage 
to canvas, I should have both my revenge and my money; fora 
correct resemblance would be worth not a penny less than the 
original has cost me.” 

“You are welcome to your jest, my lord,” said Mowbray, 
“it has been well paid for; and I will serve you in ten thousand 
at the same rate. What say you?” he proceeded, taking up 
and shuffling the cards, ‘will you do yourself more justice in 
another game 2—_Revenge, they say, is sweet.” 

“T have no appetite for it this evening,” said the Earl 
gravely; ‘if I had, Mowbray, you might come by the worse. I 
do not a/ways call a point without showing it.” 

“Your lordship is out of humor with yourself for a blunder 
that might happen to any man—it was as much my good luck 
as a good hand would have been, and so Fortune be praised.” 

* But what if with this Fortune had nought to do?” replied 
Lord Etherington.— What if, sitting down with an honest 
fellow and a friend like yourself, Mowbray, a man should rather 
choose to lose his own money, which he could afford, than to 
win what it might distress his friend to part with ? ” 

‘“‘ Supposing a case so far out of supposition, my lord,” 
answered Mowbray, who felt the question ticklish—‘“ for, with 
submission, the allegation is easily made, and is totally incapable 
of proof—I should say, no one had a right to think for me in 
such a particular, or to suppose that I played for a higher stake 
than was convenient.” 

i" “And thus your friend, poor devil,” replied Lord Ethering- 
ton, “‘ would lose his money, and run the risk of a quarrel into 
the boot !—We will try it another way—Suppose this good- 
humored and simple-minded gamester had a favor of the deepest 
import to ask of his friend, and judged it better to prefer 
his request to a winner than to a loser?” 

“Tf this applies to me, my lord,” replied Mowbray, “it is 
necessary I should learn how I can ‘oblige your lordship.” 

“That is a word soon spoken, but so difficult to be recalled, 
that I am almost tempted to pause—but yet it must be said.— 
Mowbray, you have a sister.” 

Mowbray started.—“ I have indeed a sister, my lord ; but I 
can conceive no case in which her name can enter with propriety 
into our present discussion,” 

*¢ Again in the menacing mood ! ” said Lord Etherington, 
in his former tone ; “ now here is a pretty fellow—he would first 


r 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 18) 


cut my throat for having won a thousand pounds from me, and 
then for offering to make his sister a countess ! ” 

Pere countess, my lord ?”’ said Mowbray ; “ you are but jasehig 
—you have never even seen Clara Mowbray.” 

“Perhaps not—but what then ?—I may have seen her 
picture, as Puff says in the Critic, or fallen in love with her from 
rumor—or, to save further suppositions, as I see they render 
you impatient, I may be satisfied with knowing that she is a 
beautiful and accomplished young lady, with a large fortune.” 

** What fortune do you mean, my lord?” said Mowbray, 
recollecting with alarm some claims which, according to 
Meiklewham’s view of the subject, his sister might form upon 
his property.—‘ What estate ?—-there 1s nothing belongs to our 
family save these lands of St. Ronan’s, or what is left of them ; 
and of these I am, my lord, an undoubted heir of entail in posses- 
sion.” 

“* Be it so,” said the Earl, “for I have no claim on your 
mountain realms here, which are, doubtless, 


‘renown’d of old 
For knights, and squires, and barons bold ;’ 


my views respect a much richer, though less romantic domain 
in a large manor, hight Nettlewood. House old, but standing 
—the midst of such glorious oaks—three thousand acres of 
land, arable, pasture, and woodland, exclusive of the two closes 
occupied by Widow Hodge and Goodman Trampclod—manorial 
rights—mines and minerals—and the devil knows how many 
good things beside, all lying in the vale of Bever.” 

‘“‘ And what has my sister to do with all this?” asked Mow- 
bray in great surprise 

‘‘ Nothing ; but that it belongs to her when she becomes 
Countess of Etherington,” 

“ It is, then, your lordship’s property already ? ”’ 

“ No, by Jove ! nor can it, unless your sister honors me with 
her approbation of my suit,” replied the Earl. 

“This is a sorer puzzle than one of.Lady Penelope’s charades, 
my lord,” said Mr. Mowbray ; “ I must call in the assistance of 
the Reverend Mr. Chatterly !” 

** You shall not need,” said Lord Etherington ; ‘“ I will give 
you the key, but listen to me with patience. >You know that 
we nobles of England; less jealous of our, sixteen quarters than 
those on the Continent, do not take scorn to line our decayed 
ermines with a little cloth of gold from the city ; and my grand- 
father was lucky enough to get a wealthy wife, with a halting 


182 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


pedigree,—rather a singular circumstance, considering that her 
father was a countryman of yours. She had a brother, how- 
ever, still more wealthy than herself, and who increased his 
fortune by continuing to carry on the trade which had first en- 
riched his family. . At length he summed up his. books, washed 
his hands of commerce, and retired to Nettlewood, to become a 
gentleman ; and here my much respected grand-uncle was seized 
with the rage cf making himself a man of consequence. He 
tried what marrying a woman of family would do ; but he soon 
found that, whatever advantage his family might derive from his 
doing so, his own condition was but little illustrated. He next 
resolved to become a man of family himself. His father had 
left Scotland when very young, and bore, I blush to say, the 
vulgar name of Scrogie. This hapless. dissyllable my uncle 
carried in person to the herald office in Scotland; but neither 
Lyon, nor Marchmont, nor Islay, nor Snowdon, neither herald 
nor pursuivant, would patronize Scrogie.—Scrogie ! there.could 
nothing be made out of it—so that my worthy relative had 
recourse to the surer side of the house, and began to found his 
dignity on his mother’s name of Mowbray. In this he was much 
more successful, and I believe some sly fellow stole for him a 
slip from your own family tree, Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s, 
which, I dare say, you have never missed. At anyrate, for his 
argent and or, he got ahandsome piece of parchment, blazoned 
with a white lion for Mowbray, to be borne quarterly, with three 
stunted or scrog-bushes for Scrogie, and became thenceforth 
Mr. Scrogie Mowbray, or rather, as he subscribed himself, 
Reginald (his former Christian name was Ronald) S. Mowbray. 
He had a son who most undutifully laughed at all this, refused 
the honors of the high name of Mowbray, and: insisted on 
retaining his father’s original appellative of Scrogie, to the 
great annoyance of his said father’s ears, and damage of his 
temper.” 

‘Why, faith, betwixt the two,” said Mowbray, “I own I 
should have preferred my own name, and I think the old gentle- 
man’s taste rather better than the young one’s.” 

“True; but both wilful, absurd originals, with a happy 
obstinacy of temper, whether derived from Mowbray or Scrogie, 
I know not, but which led them so often into opposition, that 
the offended father, Reginald S. Mowbray, turned his recusant 
son, Scrogie, fairly out of doors; and the fellow would ‘have 
paid for his plebeian spirit with a vengeance, had he-not found 
refuge with a surviving partner of the original Scrogie of all, 
who still carried on the lucrative branch of traffic by which the 
family had been first enriched. I mention these particulars to 


cA 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 183 


account,.in so far as I can, for the singular ad neni oe in which 
I now find myself placed. " 

*“ Proceed, my lord,” said Mr. Mowbray; “ there is no deny- 
ing the singularity of your story, and I presume you are quite 
serious in giving me such an extraordinary detail.” 

** Entirely so, upon my honor—and a most serious matter it 
is, you will presently find. When my worthy uncle, Mr. S, 
Mowbray (for I will not call him Scrogie even in the grave), 
paid. his debts to nature, everybody concluded he would be 
found to have disinherited his son, the unfilial Scrogie, and so 
far everybody was right—But it was also generally believed that 
he would settle the estate on my, father, Lord Etherington, the 
son of his sister, and therein every one was wrong. For my 
excellent grand-uncle had pondered with himself, that the 
favored name of Mowbray would take no advantage, and attain 
no additional elevation, if = estate of Nettlewood (otherwise 
called Mowbray Park) should descend to our family without any 
condition ; and with the assistance of a sharp attorney, he 
settled it on me, then a schoolboy, on condition that I should, 
before obtaining the age of twenty-five complete, take unto my- 
self in holy wedlock a young lady of good fame, of the name of 
Mowbray, and, by preference, of the house of St. Ronan’s, 
should a damsel of that house exist.—Now my riddle is read.” 

“And a very extraordinary one it is,” replied Mowbray, 
thoughtfully. 

“Confess the truth,” said Lord Etherington, laying his hand 
on his shoulder; ‘ you think the story will bear a grain of a 
scruple of doubt, if not a whole scruple itself ?” 

“At least, my lord,” answered Mowbray, “ your lordship 
will allow, that, being Miss Mowbray’s only near relation, and 
sole guardian, I may, without offence, pause upon a suit for her 
hand, made under such odd circumstances.” 

** If you have the least doubt either respecting my rank or 
fortune, I can give, of course, the most satisfactory references,” 
said the Earl of Etherington. 

“That I can easily believe, my lord,” said Mowbray ; “ nor 
do I in the least fear deception, where detection would be so 
easy. ‘Your lordship’s proceedings toward me, too” (with a 
conscious glance at the bills he still held in his hand), “ have, 
I admit, been such as to intimate some such deep cause of 
interest as you have been pleased to state. But it seems strange 
that your lordship should have permitted years to glide away, 
without so much as inquiring after the young lady, who, | 
believe, is the only person qualified, as your grand-uncle’s: wil 
requires, with whom you can form an alliance. It appears to 


184 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


me, that long before now, this matter ought to have been: 
investigated; and that, even now, it would have been more 
natural and more decorous to have at least seen my sister 
before proposing for her hand.” | 

“On the first point, my dear Mowbray,” said Lord Ethering- 
ton, ‘I am free to own to you, that, without meaning your 
sister the least affront, I would have got rid of this clause if I 
could; for every man would fain choose a wife for himself, and 
I feel in no hurry to marry at all. But the rogue-lawyers, after 
taking fees, and keeping me in hand for years, have at Jength 
roundly told me the clause must be complied with, or Nettle- 
wood must have another master. So I thought it best tocome 
down here in person in order to address the fair lady ; but as 
accident has hitherto prevented my seeing her, and as I found 
in her brother a man who understands the world, I hope you 
will not think the worse of me, that I have endeavored in the. 
outset to make you my friend. ‘Truth is, I shall be twenty-five 
in the course of a month; and without your favor, and the 
opportunities which only you can afford me, that seems a short 
time to woo and win a lady of Miss Mowbray’s merit.” 

‘And what is the alternative if you do not form this pro- 
posed alliance, my lord?” said Mowbray. 

“The bequest of my grand-uncle lapses,” said the Earl, 
“and fair Nettlewood, with its old house, and older oaks, 
manorial rights, Hodge Trampclod, and all, devolves on a 
certain cousin-german ” of mine, whom Heaven of his mercy 
confound !”’ 

“You have left yourself little time to prevent S1ioh an event, 
my lord,” said Mowbray; “ but things being as I now see them, 
you shall have what interest I can give you in the affair.—We 
must stand, however, on more equal terms, my lord—lI will con- 
descend so far as to allow it would have been inconvenient for 
me at this moment to have lost that game, but I cannot in the 
circumstances. think of acting as if I had fairly won it. We 
must draw stakes, my lord.” 

‘Not a word of that, if you really mean me kindly, my dear 
Mowbray. ‘The blunder was a real one, for I was indeed think- 
ing, as you may suppose, on other things than the showing my 
point—All was fairly lost and won.—I hope I shall have oppor- 
tunities of offering real services, which may perhaps give me 
some right to your partial regard—at present we are on equal 
footing on all sides—perfectly SO.” 

“If your lordship thinks so,” said Mowbray—and then 
passing rapidly to what he felt he could say with more confi- 
dence—“ Indeed, at any rate, no personal obligation to myself 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 185 


could prevent my doing my full duty as guardian to my 
sister.” 

‘“‘ Unquestionably, I desire nothing else,” replied the Earl 
of Etherington. 

“JT must therefore understand that your lordship is quite 
serious in your proposal; and that it is not to be withdrawn, 
even if, upon acquaintance with Miss Mowbray, you should not 
perhaps think her so deserving of your lordship’s attentions as 
report may have spoken her.” 

“Mr. Mowbray,” replied the Earl, “the treaty between you 
and me shall be as definite as if I were a sovereign prince, 
demanding in marriage the sister of a neighboring monarch, 
whom according to royal etiquette, he neither has seen nor 
could see. J have been quite frank with you, and I have stated 
to you that my present motives for entering upon negotiation 
are not personal, but territorial; when I know Miss Mowbray, 
I have no doubt they will be otherwise. I have heard she is 
beautiful.” 

“Something of the palest, my lord,’ answered Mowbray. 

“A fine complexion is the first attraction which is lost in 
the world of fashion, and that which it is easiest to replace.” 

“ Dispositions, my lord, may differ,” said Mowbray, “ with- 
out faults on either side. I presume your lordship has inquired 
into my sister’s. She is amiable, accomplished, sensible, and 
high-spirited; but yet ’—— 

“T understand you, Mr. Mowbray, and will spare you the 
pain of speaking out. I have heard Miss Mowbray is in some 
respects—particular ; to use a broader word—a little whimsi- 
cal. No matter. She will have the less to learn when she 
becomes a countess, and a woman of fashion.” 

“‘ Are you serious, my lord ?.” said Mowbray. 

“TI am—and I will speak my mind still more plainly. I 
have a good temper, and excellent spirits, and.can endure a 
good deal of singularity in those I live with. I have no doubt 
your sister and I will live happily together—But in case it 
should prove otherwise, arrangements may be made previously, 
which will enable us in certain circumstances to live happily 
apart. My own. estate is large, and Nettlewood will bear 
dividing.” 

“Nay, then,” said Mowbray, “I have little more to say 
—nothing indeed remains for inquiry, so far as your lord- 
ship is concerned. But my sister must have free liberty of 
choice—so far as I am concerned, your lordship’s suit has my 
interest.” 

“And I trust we may consider it as a done thing?” 


186 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“‘ With Clara’s approbation—certainly,” answered Mowbray. 

“I trust there is no chance of personal repugnance on the 
young lady’s part?” said the young peer. 

‘“‘T anticipate nothing of the kind, my lord,” answered Mow- 
bray, “‘as I presume there is no reason for any; but young 
ladies will be capricious, and if Clara, after I have done and 
said all that a. brother ought to do, should remain repugnant, 
there is a point in the exertion of my influence which it would 
be cruelty to pass.” 

The Earl of Etherington walked a turn through the apart- 
ment, then paused, and said 3 in a grave and doubtful tone, “ In 
the meanwhile, I am bound, and ‘the young lady is free, Mow- 
bray. Is this quite fair?” 

‘““It is what happens in’every case, my lord, where a gentle- 
man proposes for a lady,” answered Mowbray ; ““he must re- 
main, of course, bound by his offer, until, within a reasonable 
time, it is accepted or rejected. It is not my fault that your 
lordship has declared your wishes to me, before ascertaining 
Clara’s inclination. But while as yet the matter is between 
ourselves—I make you welcome to draw back if you think 
proper.. Clara Mowbray needs not push for a catch-match.” 

‘Nor do I desire,” said the young nobleman, “any time to 
reconsider the resolution which I have confided to you. | I am 
not in the least fearful that I shall change my mind on seeing 
your sister, and | am ready to stand by the proposal which'I 
have made to you.—If, however, you feel so extremely deli- 
cately on my account,” he continued, “‘ I can see and even con- 
verse with Miss Mowbray at this féte of yours, without the ne- 
cessity of being at all presented to her—The character which : 
have assumed in a manner obliges me to wear a mask.” 

“‘ Certainly,” said the Laird ‘of St. Ronan’s, “and I am 

glad, for both our sakes, , your lordship thinks of taking a little 
Taw upon this’occasion.’ 

‘J shall profit nothing by it,” said the Earl; ‘my doom is 
fixed before’I start—but if this mode of managing the matter 
will save your conscience, I have no objection to it—it cannot 
consume much time, which is what I have to look to.” 

They then shook hands and parted, without any further ay 
course which could interest the reader. 

Mowbray was glad to find’ himself-aloneé, in order to chink 
over what had happened, and to ascertain the state of his own 
mind, which at present’ was puzzling even to himself. He 
could not but feel that much greater advantages of every kind 
might accrue to himself and his family from the alliance of the 
wealthy young Earl, than could have been’ derived from any 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 184 


share of his spoils which he had proposed to gain by superior 
address in play, or greater skill on the turf. But his pride was 
hurt when he recollected that he had placed himself entirely in 
Lord Etherington’s power; and the escape from absolute ruin © 
which he had made, solely by the sufferance of his opponent, 
had nothing in it consolatory to his wounded feelings. He 
was lowered in his own eyes, when he recollected how com- 
pletely the proposed victim of his ingenuity had seen through 
his schemes, and only, abstained from baffling them entirely, 
because to do so suited best with his own. There was a shade 
of suspicion, too, which he could not entirely eradicate from 
his mind.— What occasion had this young nobleman to 
preface, by the voluntary loss of a brace of thousands, a pro- 
posal which must have been acceptable in itself, without any 
such sacrifice’? And why should he, after all; have been so 
eager to secure his accession to the proposed alliance, before 
he had ever seen the lady who was the object of it?, However 
hurried for time, he might have waited the event at, least of 
the entertainment at Shaws Castle, at which Clara was neces- 
sarily obliged to make her appearance.—Yet such conduct, 
however unusual, was equally inconsistent with any sinister in- 
tentions ; since the sacrifice of a large sum of money, and the 
declaration of his views upon a portionless young lady of 
family, could scarcely be the preface to any unfair practice. 
So that, upon the whole, Mowbray settled, that what was un- 
common in the Earl’s conduct arose from the hasty and eager 
disposition of a rich young Englishman, to whom money is of 
little consequence, and who is too headlong in pursuit of the 
favorite plan of the moment, to proceed in the most rational or 
most ordinary manner. If, however, there should prove any- 
thing further in the matter than he could at present discover, 
Mowbray promised himself that the utmost circumspection on 
his part could not fail to discover it, and that in full time to 
prevent any ill consequences to his sister or himself. 
Immersed in such cogitations, he avoided the inquisitive pres- 
ence of Mr. Meiklewham, who, as usual, had been watching for 
him to learn how matters were going on; and although it,was 
now late, he mounted his horse and rode hastily to Shaws. Castle. 
On the way, he deliberated with himself whether to mention to 
his sister the application which had been made to him, in order 
to prepare her to receive the young Earl, as a suitor, favored 
with her brother’s approbation. ‘f But no, no, no ; ”’ such was 
the result of his contemplation. “She might take it into her 
head that his thoughts were bent less upon having her for a 
countess, than on obtaining possession of his grand-uncle’s 


t 


188 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


estate. We must keep quiet,” concluded he, “ until her personal 
appearance and accomplishments may appear at least to have 
some influence upon his choice. We must say nothing till this 
blessed entertainment has been given and received.” 


CHAPTER NINETEENTH. 
A LETTE 


‘“ Has he so long held out with me untired, 
And stops he now for breath ?>—Well—Be it so.” 
RICHARD III. 


Moweray had no sooner left the Earl’s apartment, than the 
latter commenced an epistle to a friend and associate, which we 
lay before the reader, as best calculated to illustrate the views 
and motives of the writer. It was addressed to Captain Jekyl 
of the regiment of Guards, at the Green Dragon, Harrogate, 
and was of the following tenor :— 


** DEAR Harry, 

‘* T have expected you here these ten days past, anxiously as 
ever man was looked for; and have now to charge your absence 
as high treason to your sworn allegiance. Surely you do not 
presume, like one of Napoleon’s new made monarchs, to grumble 
for independence, as if your greatness were of your own making, 
or as if I had picked you out of the whole of St. James’s coffee- 
house to hold my back-hand, for your sake, forsooth, not for my 
own ? Wherefore, lay aside all your own proper business, be it 
the pursuit of dowagers, or the plucking of pigeons, and instantly 
repair to this place, where I may speedily want your assistance. 
—May want it, said 1? Why, most negligent of friends and 
allies, I Aave wanted it already, and that when it might have 
done me yeoman’s service. Know that I have had an. affair 
since I came hither—have got hurt myself, and have nearly shot 
my friend; and if I had, I might have been hanged for it, for 
want of Harry Jekyl to bear witness in my favor. I was so 
far on my road to this place, when, not choosing, for certain 
reasons, to pass through the old village, I struck by a footpath 
into the woods which separate it from the new Spa, leaving 
my ‘carriage and people to go the carriage-way. I had not 
walked half-a-mile when I heard the footsteps of some one. be- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 189 


hind, and looking round, what should I behold but. the face in 
the world which I most cordially hate and abhor—I mean that 
which stands on the shoulders of my right trusty and well- 
beloved cousin and counselor, Saint Francis. He seemed as 
much confounded as I was at our unexpected meeting ; and it 
was a minute ere he found breath to. demand what I did in 
Scotland, contrary to my promise, as he was pleased to express 
it. I retaliated, and charged him with being here, in contradic- 
tion to his. He justified, and said he had only come down upon 
the express information that I was upon my road to St. Ronan’s, 
Now, Harry, how the devil should he have known this, hadst 
thou been quite faithful? for I am sure, to noear but thine own 
did [ breathe a whisper of my purpose.—Next, with the insolent, 
assumption of superiority, which he founds on what he calls the 
rectitude of his purpose, he proposed we should both withdraw 
from a neighborhood into which we could bring nothing but 
wretchedness.—I have told you how difficult it is to cope with 
the calm and resolute manner that the devil gifts him with on 
such occasions ; but I was determined he should not carry the 
day this time. I saw no chance for it, however, but to put my- 
self into a towering passion, which, thank Heaven, I can always 
do on short notice. I charged him with having imposed. for- 
merly on my youth, and made himself judge of my rights ; and 
I accompanied my defiance with the strongest terms of irony 
and contempt, as well as with demand of instant satisfaction. 
I had my traveling pistols with me (é pour cause), and, to, my 
surprise, my gentleman was equally provided. For fair play’s 
sake I made him take one of my pistols—right Kuchenritters— 
a brace of balls ineach, but that circumstance I forgot. I would 
fain have argued the mattera little longer; but I thought at 
the time, and think still, that the best arguments which he and 
I can exchange must come from the point of the sword, or the 
muzzle of the pistol—We fired nearly together, and I think 
both dropped—I am sure I did, but recovered in aminute, with 
a damaged arm and a scratch on the temple—it was the last 
which stunned me—so much for double-loaded pistols... My 
friend was invisible, and I had nothing for it but to walk to the 
Spa, bleeding all the way like a calf, and tell a raw-head-and- 
bloody-bone story about a footpad, which, but for my earldom, 
and my gory locks, no living soul would have believed. 

*¢ Shortly after, when I had been installed in a sick-room, I 
had the mortification to learn that my own impatience had 
brought all this mischief upon me, at a moment when I had 
every chance of getting rid of my friend without trouble, had 
I but let him goon his own errand; forit seems he had an 


190 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


appointment that morning with a booby Baronet, who is said 
to be a bullet-slitter, and would perhaps have rid me of Saint 
Francis without any trouble or risk on my part. Meantime, his 
non-appearance at this rendezvous has placed Master Francis 
Tyrrel, as he chooses to call himself, in the worst odor possi- 
ble with the gentry at the Spring, who have denounced him as 
a coward and no gentleman. What to think of the business 
myself, I know not; and I much want your assistance to see 
what can have become of this fellow, who, like a spectre of ill 
omen, has so often thwarted and baffled my best plans. My 
own confinement renders me inactive, though my wound is fast 
healing. Dead he cannot be; for had he been mortally wound- 
ed, we should have heard of him somewhere or other—he could 
not have vanished from the earth like a bubble of the elements. 
Well and sound he cannot be; for, besides that I am sure I 
saw him stagger and drop, firing his pistol as he fell, I know him 
well enough to swear, that had he not been severely wounded, 
he would have first pestered me with his accursed presence and 
assistance, and then walked forward with his usual composure 
to settle matters with Sir Bingo Binks.. No—no—Saint Francis 
is none of those who leave such jobs half finished—it is but do- 
ing him justice to say he has the devil’s courage to back his 
own deliberate impertinence. But then, if wounded: severely, 
he must be still in this neighborhood, and probably in conceal- 
ment—this is what I must discover, and I want your assistance 
in my inquiries among the natives.—Haste hither, Harry, as 
ever you look for good at my hand. 

“A good player, Harry, always studies to make the best of 
bad cards—and so I have endeavored to turn my wound to 
some account ; and it has given me the opportunity ‘to secure 
Monsieur le Frere in my interests. You may say, very truly, 
that it is of consequence to me to know the character of this 
new actor on the disordered scene of my adventures.—Know, 
then, he is that most incongruous of all monsters—a Scotch 
Buck—how far from being buck of the season you may easily 
judge. Every point of national character is opposed to the pre- 
tensions of this luckless race, when they attempt to take on them 
a personage which is assumed with so much facility by their 
brethren of the Isle of Saints. ‘They are a shrewd people, in- 
deed, but so destitute of ease, grace, pliability of manners, and 
insinuation of address, that they eternally seem to suffer actual 
misery in their attempts to look gay and careless. Then their 
pride heads them back at one turn, their poverty at another, their 
pedantry at a third, their mazvaise honte, at a fourth ; and with 
so many obstacles to make them bolt off the course, it is posi- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 191 


tively impossible they should win the plate. No, Harry, it is 
the grave folk in Old England who have to fear a Caledonian 
invasion—they will make no conquests in the world of fashion. 
Excellent bankers the Scots may be, for they are eternaly cal- 
culating how to add interest to principal ;—good soldiers, for 
they are, if not such heroes as they would be thought, as brave, 
I suppose, as their neighbors, and much more amenable to dis- 
cipline ;—lawyers they are born ; indeed every country gentle- 
man is bred one, and their patient and crafty disposition enables 
them, in other lines, to submit to hardships which other natives 
could not bear, and avail themselves of advantages which others 
would let pass under their noses unavailingly. But assuredly 
Heaven did not form the Caledonian for the gay world; and 
his efforts at ease, grace and gayety, resemble only the clumsy 
gambols of the ass in the fable. Yet the Scot has his sphere too 
Gn his owncountry only), where the character which he assumes 
is allowed to pass current. This Mowbray, now—this brother- 
in-law of mine—might do pretty well at a Northern Meeting, or 
the Leith races, where he could give five minutes to the sport 
of the day, and the next half-hour to country politics, or to 
farming; but it is scarce necessary to tell you, Harry, that 
this half fellowship will not pass on the better side of the 
Tweed. 

“Yet, for all I have told you, this trout was not easily 
tickled ; nor should I have made much of him, had he not, in 
the plenitude of his northern conceit, entertained that notion 
of my being a good subject of plunder, which you had contrived 
(blessing on your contriving brain !) to insinuate into him by 
means of Wolverine. He commenced this hopeful experiment, 
and, as you must have anticipated, caught a Tartar with a 
vengeance. Of course, [ used my victory only so far as to 
secure his interest in accompli shing my principal object ; and 
yet I could see my gentleman’s pride was so much injured i in 
the course of the negotiation, that not all the advantages which 
the match offered to his damned family, were able entirely to 
subdue the chagrin arising from his defeat. He did gulp it 
down, though, and we are friends and allies for the present at 
Jeast—not so cordially so, however, as to induce me to trust 
him with the whole of the strangely complicated tale. The 
circumstance of the will it was necessary to communicate, as 
affording a sufficiently strong reason for urging my suit; and 
this partial disclosure enabled me for the present to dispense 
with further confidence. 

“You will observe, that I stand by no means secure ; and 
besides the chance of my cousin’s re-appearance—a certain 


192 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


event, unless he is worse than I dare hope for—I have perhaps 
to expect the fantastic repugnance of Clara herself, or some 
sulky freak on her brother’s part—In a word—and let it be 
such a one as conjurors raise the devil with—Harry Jekyl, I 
want you. 

“As well knowing the nature of my friend, I can assure you 
that his own interest, as well as mine, may be advanced by his 
coming hither on duty. Here is a blockhead whom I already 
mentioned, Sir Bingo Binks, with whom something may be done 
worth your while, though scarce worth mévze. ‘The Baronet isa 
perfect buzzard, and when I came here he was under Mowbray’s 
training.—But the awkward Scot had plucked half-a-dozen pen- 
feathers from his wing with so little precaution, that the Baronet 
has become frightened and shy, and is now in the act of rebelling 
against Mowbray, whom he both hates and fears—the least 
backing from a knowing hand like you, and the bird becomes 
your own, feathers and all.—Moreover, 


‘ 


by my life, 
This Bingo hath a mighty pretty wife.’ 


A lovely woman, Harry—rather plump, and above the middle 
size — quite your taste —a Juno in beauty, looking with such 
scorn on her husband, whom she despises and hates, and seem- 
ing, as if she cow/d look so differently on any one whom she 
might like better, that, on my faith, ’twere sin not to give her 
occasion. If you please to venture your luck, either with the 
knight or the lady, you shall have fair play, and no interference 
—that is, provided you appear upon this summons ; for, other- 
wise, I may be so placed, that the affairs of the knight and the 
lady may fall under my own immediate cognizance. And so, 
Harry, if you wish to profit by these hints, you had best make 
haste, as well for your own concerns, as to assist me in mine. 
“Yours, Harry, as you behave yourself, 
‘“‘ ETHERINGTON.” 


Having finished this eloquent and instructive epistle, the 
young Earl demanded the attendance of his own valet, Solmes, 


whom he charged to put it into the post-office without delay, 
and with his own hand, 


, ST. RONAN’S WELL. 193 


CHAPTER TWENTIETH. 
THEATRICALS. 
The play’s the thing. —HAMLET. 


THE important day had now arrived, the arrangements for 
which had for some time occupied all the conversation and 
thoughts of the good company at the well of St. Ronan’s. To 
give it, at the same time, a degree of novelty and consequence, 
Lady Penelope Penfeather had long since suggested to Mr. 
Mowbray, that the more gifted and accomplished part of the 
guests might contribute to furnish out entertainment for the 
rest, by acting a few scenes of some popular drama ; an accom- 
plishment in which her self-conceit assured her that she was 
peculiarly qualified to excel. Mr. Mowbray, who seemed on this 
occasion to have thrown the reins entirely into her ladyship’s 
hands, made no objection to the plan which she proposed, 
excepting that the old-fashioned hedges and walks of the garden 
at Shaws Castle must necessarily serve for stage and scenery, as 
there was no time to fit up the old hall for the exhibition of the 
proposed theatricals.* But upon inquiry among the company, 
this plan was wrecked upon the ordinary shelve, to wit, the 
difficulty of finding performers who would consent to assume 
the lower characters of the drama. For the first parts there 
were candidates more than enough ; but most of these were 
greatly too high-spirited to play the fool, except they were per- 
mitted totop the part. Then amongst the few unambitious 
underlings, who could be coaxed or cajoled to undertake subor- 
dinate characters, there were so many bad memories, and short 
memories, and treacherous memories, that at length the plan 
was resigned in despair. 

A substitute proposed by Lady Penelope was next considered. 
It was proposed to act what the Italians calla Comedy of Char- 
acter ; that is, not an exact drama, in which the actors deliver 
what is set down for them by the author ; but one in which, the 


* At Kilruddery, the noble seat of Lord Meath, in the county of Wick- 
low there is asituation for private theatrical exhibitions in the open air, 
planted out with the evergreens which arsie there in the most luxuriant 
magnificence. It has a wild and romantic effect, reminding one of the 
scene in which Bottom rehearsed his pageant, with a green plot for a stage, 
and a hawthorn break for a tiring-room, 


194 ST: RONAN'S WELL« 


plot having been previously fixed upon, and a few striking 
scenes adjusted, the actors are expected to supply the dialogue 
extempore, or, as Petruchio says, from their mother wit. This 
is an amusement which affords much entertainment in Italy, 
particularly in the state of Venice, where the characters of their 
drama have been long since all previously fixed, and are handed 
down by tradition ; and this species of drama, though rather 
belonging to the mask than the theatre, is distinguished by the 
name of Commedia dell’ Arte.f But the shame-faced character 
of Britons is still more alien from a species of display, where 
there is a constant and extemporaneous demand for wit, or the 
sort of ready small-talk which supplies its place, than from the 
regular exhibitions of the drama, where the author, standing 
responsible for language and sentiment, leaves to the person- 
tors of the scenes only the trouble of finding enunciation and 
action. 

But the ardent and active spirit of Lady Penelope, still 
athirst after novelty, though baffled in her two first projects, 
brought forward a third, in which she was more successful. 
This was the proposal to combine a certain number, at least, 
of the guests, properly dressed for the occasion, as representing 
some well-known historical or dramatic characters, in a group, 
having reference to history, or to a scene of the drama. In 
this representation, which may be called playing a picture, action, 
even pantomimical action, was not expected ; and all that was 
required of the performers was to throw themselves into such 
a group as might express a marked and striking: point of an 
easily remembered scene, but where the actors are at a pause, 
and without either speech or motion. In this species. of rep- 
resentation there was no tax, either on the invention or memory 
of those who might undertake parts ; and, what recommended 
it still further to the good company, there was no marked differ- 
ence betwixt the hero and heroine of the group, and the less 
distinguished characters by whom they were attended on the 
stage ; and every one who had confidence in a handsome shape 
and a becoming dress, might hope, though standing in not quite 
so broad and favorable a light as the principal personages, to 
draw, nevertheless, a considerable portion of attention and 
applause, This motion, therefore, that the company, or such 
of them as might choose to appear properly dressed for the 
occasion, should form themselves into one or more groups, 


+ See Mr. William Stewart Rose’s very interesting Letters from the 
North of Italy, Vol. i. Letter XXX., where this curious subject is treated 
ae the information and precision which distinguish that accomplished 
author, 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 195 

which might be renewed and varied as often as they pleased, 
was hailed and accepted as a bright idea, which assigned to 
every one a share of the importance attached to its probable 
success. - 

Mowbray, on his side, promised to contrive some arrange- 
ment which should separate the actors in this mute drama from 
the spectators, and enable the former to vary the amusement 
by withdrawing themselves from the scene, and again appear- 
ing upon it under a different and new combination. This plan 
of exhibition, where fine clothes and affected attitudes supplied 
all draughts upon fancy or talent, was highly agreeable to most 
of the ladies present ; and even Lady Binks, whose discontent 
seemed proof against every effort that could be proposed to 
soothe it, acquiesced in the project, with perfect indifference 
indeed, but with something less of sullenness than usual. 

It now only rémained to rummage the circulating library, 
for some piece of sufficient celebrity to command attention, 
and which should be at the same time suited to the execution 
of their project. Bell’s British Theatre, Miller’s Modern and 
Ancient Drama, and about twenty old volumes, in which stray 
tragedies and comedies were associated, like the passengers ina 
mail-coach, without the least attempt at selection or arrangement, 
were all examined in the course of their researches. ‘But- Lady 
Penelope declared loftily and decidedly for Shakespeare, as the 
author whose immortal works were fresh in 'everyone’s recollec- 
‘tion. Shakespeare: was therefore chosen, and from his works 
the Midsummer Night’s Dream was selected, as the play which 
afforded the: greatest variety of characters, and most scope of 
coutse for the inténded representation. An active competition 
presently occurred among the greater part of the company, for 
such copies of the Midsummer Night’s Dream, or the volume of 
Shakespeare containing it, as could be gotiin the neighborhood ; 
‘for, notwithstanding Lady Penelope’s declaration, that every one 
who could read, had Shakespeare’s plays by heart, it appeared 
that such of his dramas as have not kept possession of the stage 
were very little known at St. Ronan’s, save among those people 
who are emphatically called readers. 

The adjustment of the parts was the first subject of considera- 
tion, so soon as those who intended ‘to assume characters had 
refreshed their recollection on the subject of the piece. Theseus 
was unanimously ‘assigned to Mowbray, the giver of the enter- 
tainment, and therefore justly entitled to re present the Duke of 
Athens. The costume of an Amazonian crest and plume, a 
~tucked-up vest, and a tight buskin of sky-blue silk, buckled 
with diamonds, teconciled Lady Binks to the part of Hippolyta. 


The superior stature of Miss Mowbray to Lady Penelope made 
it necessary that the former should perform the part of Helena, 
and her ladyship rest contented with the shrewish character of 
Hermia. It was resolved to compliment the young Earl of 
Etherington with the part of Lysander, which, however, his 
Lordship declined, and, preferring comedy to tragedy, refused 
to appear in any other character than that of the magnanimous 
Bottom ; and he gave them such a humorous specimen of his 
quality in that part, that all were delighted at once with his 
condescension in assuming, and his skill in performing, the 
presenter of Pyramus. 

The part of Egeus was voted to Captain MacTurk, whose 
obstinacy in refusing to appear in any other than the full 
Highland garb, had nearly disconcerted the whole affair, At 
length this obstacle was got over, on the authority of Childe 
Harold, who remarks the similarity betwixt the Highland and 
Grecian costume;* and the company, dispensing with the 
difference of color, voted the Captain’s variegated kilt, of the 
MacTurk tartan, to be the kirtle of a Grecian. mountaineer,— 
Egeus to be an Arnout, and the Captain to be Egeus. . Chat- 
terly and.the painter, walking. gentlemen by profession, agreed 
to walk through the parts.of Demetrius and Lysander, the two 
Athenian lovers; and Mr. Winterblossom, loath and lazy, after 
many excuses, was bribed. by Lady Penelope, with an antique, 
or supposed antique cameo, to play the part of. Philostratus, 
master of the revels, provided his gout. would permit him to 
remain so long upon the turf, which was to be their stage. 

Muslin trowsers, adorned with spangles, a voluminous turban 
of silver gauze, and wings of the same, together with an em- 
broidered slipper, converted at once Miss Digges. into Oberon, 
the King of Shadows, whose: sovereign gravity, however, was 
somewhat indifferently represented by the silly gayety of Miss 
inher, Teens, andthe uncontroled delight. which she felt in her 
fine clothes... A younger sister. represented’ Titania; and two 
or three subordinate elves were selected, among families attend- 
ing the salutiferous fountain, who were easily persuaded to let 
their children figure in fine clothes at so juvenile an age, 
though they shook their heads at Miss Digges and her panta 
loons, and no less at the liberal display of Lady Binks’s right 


* “The Arnaults, or Albanese,” says Lord Byron, “ struck me by their 
resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in dress, figure, and manner 
of living. Their very mountains seem Caledonian, but a milder climate, 
The kilt, though white, the spare, active form, theirdialect Celtic in the 
sound, and their hardy habits, all carried me back to Morven,’”—/Votes to 
the Second Chapter of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. iis 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 197 


leg, with which the Amazonian garb gratified the public of St. 
Ronan’s. 

Dr. Quackieben was applied to to play Wall, by the assist- 
ance of such a wooden horse, or screen, as clothes are usually 
dried upon; the old Attorney stood for Lion; and the other 
characters of Bottom’s drama were easily found among the un- 
hamed frequenters of the Spring. Dressed rehearsals, and so 
forth, went merrily on—all voted there was a play fitted. 

But even the Doctor’s eloquence could not press Mrs. 
Blower into the scheme, although she was particularly wanted 
to represent Thisbe. 

“Truth is,” she replied, “‘ I dinna greatly like stage-plays 
John Blower, honest man, as sailors are aye for some spree or 
another, wad take me ance to see ane Mrs. Siddons—I thought 
we should hae been crushed to death before we gat in—a’ my 
things riven aff my back, forby the four lily-white shillings that 
it cost us—and then in came three frightsome carlines wi’ besoms, 
and they wad bewitch a sailor’s wife—I was lang eneugh there 
—and out I wad be, and out John Blower gat me, but wi’ nae 
‘sma’ fight and fend.—My Lady Penelope Penfitter, and the great 
folk, may just take it as they like ; but in my mind, Dr. Cackle- 
hen, it’s a mere blasphemy for folk to gar themselves look other- 
wise than their Maker made them; and then the changing the 
hame which was given them at baptism, is, I think, an awful 
falling away from our vows; and though Thisby, which I take 
to be Greek for Tibbie, may be a very good name, yet Margaret 
was I christened, and Margaret will I die.” 

“You mistake the matter entirely, my dear Mrs. Blower,” 
said the Doctor; “there is nothing serious intended—a mere 
placebo—just a divertisement to cheer the spirits, and assist the 
effect of the waters—cheerfulness is a great promoter of health.” 

-“Dinna tell me o’ health, Dr. Kettlepin !—Can it be for the 
puir body M‘Durk’s health to major about in the tartans like a 
tobacconist’s sign in a frosty morning, wi’ his poor wizened 
houghs as blue as a blawart ?—weel I wot he is a humbling 
spectacle. Or can it gie ony body health or pleasure either to 
see your ainsell, Doctor, ganging about wi’ a claise screen tied 
to your back, covered wi’ paper, and painted like a stane and 
lime wa’ ?—I’ll gang to see nane of their vanities, Dr. Kittle- 
hen ; and if there is nae other decent body to take care o’ me, 
as I dinna like to sit a haill afternoon by mysell, I'll e’en gae 
doun to Mr. Sowerbrowst the maltster’s—he is a pleasant sensible 
man, anda sponsible. man in the world, and his sister’s a very 
decent woman.’ 

*“ Confound Sowerbrowst,”’ thought the Doctor ; “if I had 


198 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


guessed he was to come across me thus, he should not have 
sot the better of his dyspepsy so early. —My dear Mrs. Blower,” 
he continued, but aloud, ‘it is a foolish affair enough, I must 
confess ; but every person of style and fashion at the Well has 
settled to attend this exhibition ; there has been nothing else 
talked of for this month through the whole country, and it will 
be a year before it is forgotten. And I would have you con- 
sider how ill it will look, my dear Mrs. Blower, to stay away— 
nobody will believe you had a card—no, not though you_were 
to hang it round your neck like a label round a vial of tincture, 
Mrs. Blower.” 

“Tf ye thought ¢#af, Doctor Kickherben,” said the widow, 
alarmed at the idea of losing caste, “ I wad e’en gang to ‘the 
show, like other folk ; sinful and shameful if it be, let. them that 
make the sin bear the shame. But then I will put on nane. of 
their Popish disguises—me that has lived in North Leith, baith 
wife and lass, for I shanna say how mony years, and has a char- 
acter to keep up baith with saint and sinner.—And then, wha’s 
to take care of me, since you are gaun to make a lime- and-stane 
wa’ of yoursell, Doctor Kickinben? ” 

“My dear Mrs: Blow er, if such is your determination, I will 
not make a, wall. of myself. Her ladyship must consider my 
profession—she must understand it is my function to look after 
my patients, in preference. to all the stage-plays in the world—- 
and to.attend-on a.case like yours, Mrs. Blower, it is my duty 
to sacrifice, were it called for, the whole drama from Shakespeare 
to O’Keefe.” 

On héaring this magnanimous resolution, the widow’s heart 
was greatly cheered ; for, in fact, she might probably have con- 
sidered the Doctor’s 5 pers severance in the. plan, of which she had 
expressed such high disap} probation, as little less than 2 a symptom 
of absolute defection from his allégiance. By an. accommoda- 
tion, therefore, which suited ‘both parties, it was settled that the 
Doctor should attend’ his loving widow to Shaws Castle, with- 
out mask or mantle; and, that ‘the painted screen should be 
transferred from Quackleben’ s back to the broad shoulders of a 
briefless barrister, well qualified for the part of Wall, since the 
composition of his. skull might have rivaled. in solidity the 

mortat and stone of thé most “approved builder, 
We must not pause to dilate upon the various labors of body 
and spirit which preceded the intervening space, betwixt the 
_ settlement of this gay scheme, and the time appointed to carry 
“it into execution. We will not attempt to describe how the 
. wealthy, by letter and by commissioners, urged their researches 
through the stores of the Gallery of Fashion for specimens of 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 199 


Oriental finery—how they that were scant of diamonds supplied 
their place with paste and Bristol stones—how the country 
dealers were driven out of patience by the demand for goods of 
- which they had never before heard the name—and, lastl y,; how 
the busy fingers of the more economical damsels twisted hand. 
kerchiefs into turbans, and converted petticoats into pantaloons, 
shaped and sewed, cut and clipped, and spoiled many a decent 
gown and petticoat, to produce something like a Grecian habit. 
Who can describe the wonders wrought by active needles and 
scissors, aided by thimbles and thread, upon silver gauze, and 
sprigged muslin? or who can show how, if the fair nymphs of 
the Spring did not entirely succeed in attaining the desired 
resemblance to heathen Greeks, they at least contrived to get 
rid of all similitude to sober Christians? 

Neither is it necessary to dwell upon the various schemes 
of conveyance which were -resorted to, in order to transfer the 
beau monde of the Spa to the scene of revelry at Shaws Castle. 
These were as various as the fortunes and pretensions of the 
owners; from the lordly curricle, with its outriders, to the 
humble taxed cart, nay, untaxed cart, which conveyed the per- 
sonages of lesser rank. For the latter, indeed, the two post- 
chaises at the Inn seemed converted into hourly stages, so often 
did they come and go between the Hotel and the Castle—a glad 
day for the postilions, and. a day of martyrdom for the poor 
post-horses; so seldom is it that every department of any 
society, however constituted, can ‘be injured or benefited by 
the same occurrence. 

Such, indeed, was the penury of vehicular conveyance, that 
applications were made in manner. most humble, even to Meg 
Dods herself, entreating she would permit her old whiskey to 
pty (for such might have been the phrase) at St. Ronan’s Well, 
for that day only, and that upon good cause shown. Sut. not 
for sordid lucre would the undaunted spirit of Meg compound 
her feud with her neighbors of the detested Well. ‘“ Her 
carriage,’ she briefly replied, “was engaged for her ain guest 
and the minister, and deil anither body’s fit should gang intill’t. 
Let.every herring hing by its ain head.” And, accordingly, at 
the duly appointed hour, creaked.forth the leathern conveni- 
ence, in which, carefully screened by the curtain from the gaze 
of the fry of the village, sat Nabob Touchwood, in the costume 
of an Indian merchant, or Shroff, as they are termed. The 
clergyman would not, perhaps, have been so punctual, had not 
a set of notes and messages from his friend at the. Cleikum, 
ever following each other as thick.as the papers which decorate 
the tail of a school-boy’s kite, kept. him so continually on the 


200 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


alert from daybreak till noon, that Mr. Touchwood found him 
completely dressed ; and the whiskey was only delayed for about 
ten minutes before the door of the manse, a space employed 
by Mr. Cargill in searching for his spectacles, which at last — 
were happily discovered upon his own nose. 

At length, seated by the side of his new friend, Mr. Cargill 
arrived safe at Shaws Castle, the gate of which mansion was 
surrounded by a screaming group of children, so extravagantly 
delighted at seeing the strange figures to whom each successive 
carriage gave birth, that even the stern brow and well-known 
voice of Johnny Tirlsneck, the beadle, though stationed in the 
court on express purpose, was not equal to the task of control- 
ing them. These noisy intruders, however, who, it was believed, 
were somewhat favored by Clara Mowbray, were excluded from 
the court which opened before the house, by a couple of grooms 
or helpers armed with their whips, and could only salute, with 
their shrill and wondering hailing, the various personages as 
they passed down a short avenue leading from the exterior 
gate. 

The Cleikum nabob and the minister were greeted with 
shouts not the least clamorous; which the former. merited by 
the ease with which he wore the white turban, and the latter, 
by the infrequency of his appearance in public; and both, by 
the singular association of a decent clergyman of the Church 
of Scotland, in a dress more old-fashioned than could now be 
produced in the General Assembly, walking arm-in-arm, and 
seemingly in the most familiar terms, with a Parsee merchant. 
They stopped a moment at the gate of the courtyard to admire 
the front of the old mansion, which had been disturbed ik so 
unusual a scene of gayety. 

Shaws Castle, though so named, presented no appearance of 
defence; and the present edifice had never been designed for 
more than the accommodation of a peaceful family, having a low, 
heavy front, loaded with some of that meretricious ornament, 
which, uniting, or rather confounding, the Gothic and Grecian 
architecture, was much used during the reigns of James VI. of © 
Scotland, and his unfortunate son. The court formed a small 
square, two sides of which were occupied by such buildings as 
were required for the family, and the third by the stables, the 
only part to which much attention had been paid, the present 
Mr. Mowbray having put them into excellent order. The fourth 
side of the square was shut up by a screen wall, through which 
a door opened to the avenue ; the whole being a kind of structure 
which may be still found on those old Scottish properties, where 
a rage to render their place Parkish, as was at one time the pre- 


ST. RONAN'S WELT. bey 


vailing phrase, has not induced the owners to pull down the ven- 
erable and sheltering appendages with which their wiser fathers 
had screened their mansion, and to lay the whole open to the 
keen north-east ; much after the fashion of a spinster of fifty, 
who chills herself to gratify the public by an exposure of her 
thin red elbows, and shriveled neck and bosom. 

A double door, thrown hospitably open on the present 
occasion, admitted the company into a dark and lowhall, where 
Mowbray himself, wearing the under dress of Theseus, but not 
having yet assumed his ducal cap and robes, stood to receive 
his guests with due courtesy, and to indicate to each the road 
allotted to him. Those who were to take a share in the repre- 
sentation of the morning were conducted to an old saloon, 
destined for a green-room, and which communicated with a 
series of apartments on the right, hastily fitted with accommoda- 
tions for arranging and completing their toilet ; while others, 
who took no part in the intended drama, were ushered to the 
left, intoa large, unfurnished, and long disused dining parlor, 
where a sashed door opened into the gardens, crossed with yew 
and holly hedges, still trimmed and clipped by the old gray- 
headed gardener, upon’ those principles which a Dutchman 
thought worthy of commemorating in a didactic poem upon the 
Ars Topiaria, 

A little wilderness, surrounding a beautiful piece of the 
smoothest turf, and itself bounded by such high hedges as we 
have described, had been selected ‘as the stage most proper for 
the exhibition of the intended dramatic picture. It afforded 
many facilities ; for a rising bank exactly in front was accom- 
modated with seats for the spectators, who had a complete view 
of the sylvan theatre, the bushes and shrubs having been cleared 
away, and the place supplied with a temporary screen, which, 
being withdrawn by the domestics appointed for that purpose, 
was to serve for the rising of the curtain. | A covered trellis, 
which passed through another part of the garden, and termi- 
nated with a private door opening from the right wing of the 
building, seemed as if it had been planted on purpose for the 
proposed exhibition, as it served to give the personages of the 
drama a convenient and secret access from the green-room to 
the place of representation. Indeed, the dramatis persone, at 
least those who adopted the management of the matter, were 
induced, by so much convenience, to extend, in some measure, 
their original plan’; and, instead of one group, as had been at 
first proposed, they now found themselves able to exhibit to the 
‘good company a succession of three or four, selected and 
‘arranged from different parts of the drama; thus giving some 


202 ST, RONAN’S WELL. 


duration, as well as some variety, to the entertainment, besides 
the advantage of separating and contrasting the tragic and the 
comic scenes. 

After wandering about amongst the gardens, which contained | 
little to interest any one, and endeavoring to recognize some 
characters, who, accommodating themselves to the humors of 
the day, had ventured to appear in the various disguises of 
ballad-singers, pedlers, shepherds, Highlanders, and so forth, 
the company began to draw together toward the spot where 
the seats prepared for them, and the screen drawn in front. of 
the bosky stage, induced them to assemble, and excited expecta- 
tion, especially as a scroll in front of the esplanade set forth, 
in the words of the play, “‘ This green plot shall be our stage, 
this hawthorn brake our tiring-house, and we will do it in 
action.” A delay of about ten minutes began to excite some 
suppressed murmurs of impatience among the audience, when 
the touch of Gow’s fiddle suddenly burst. from a neighboring 
hedge, behind which he had established its little orchestra. 
All were of course silent. 


“* As through his dear strathspeys he bore with Highland rage.” 


And when he changed his strain to an adagio, and suffered his 
music to.die away in the plaintive notes of.Roslin Castle, the 
echoes of the old walls were, after a long slumber, awakened 
by that enthusiastic burst af applause, with wabacle the Scots 
usually received and rewarded their country’s gifted minstrel. . 

“ He is his father’s own son,” said Touchwood to the clergy- 
man, for both had gotten seats near about the centre of the 
place of audience. ‘It is many a long year since, I listened to 
old Neil.at Inver, and, to say truth, spent, a night: with him 
over pancakes and Athole brose ; and I never expected to hear 
his match again in my lifetime. But stop—the curtain rises.” 

_ The screen was indeed withdrawn, and displayed Hermia, 
Helena, and their lovers, in attitudes corresponding to the scene 
of confusion occasioned by the error of Puck. 

Messrs, Chatterly and the Painter played their parts neither 
better nor worse than amateur actors in general ; and the best 
that could be said of them was, that they seemed more than half 
ashamed of their exotic dresses, and of the public gaze, 

But against this untimely ‘weakness Lady Penelope. was 
guarded, by the strong shield of self-conceit... She minced, am- 
bled, and, notwithstanding the slight appearance of her person, 
and the depredations which time had made,on a countenance 
‘that had never been very much distinguished for beauty, seemed 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 203 


desirous to top the part of the beautiful daughter of Egeus. The 
sullenness which was proper to the character of Hermia, was 
much augmented by the discovery that Miss Mowbray was so 
much better dressed than herself,—a discovery which she had 
but recently made, as that young lady had not attended on the 
regular rehearsals at the Well, but once, and then without her 
stage habit. Her ladyship, however, did not permit this painful 
sense of inferiority, where she had expected triumph, so far to 
prevail over her desire of shining, as to interrupt materially 
the manner in which she had settled to represent her portion of 
the scene. The nature of the exhibition precluded much ac- 
tion, but Lady Penelope made amends by such a succession of 
grimaces, as might rival, in variety at least, the singular dis- 
play which Garrick used to call “Going his rounds.” She twist- 
ed her poor features into looks of most desperate love toward 
Lysander; into those of wonder and offended pride, when she 
turned them upon Demetrius; and finally settled them on 
Helena, with the happiest possible imitation of an incensed 
rival, who feels the impossibility of relieving her swollen heart 
by tears alone, and is just about to have recourse to her nails. 

No contrast could be stronger in looks, demeanor, and figure, 
than that between Hermia and Helena. In the latter character, 
the beautiful form and foreign dress of Miss Mowbray attracted 
all eyes. She kept her place on the stage, as a sentinel does 
that which his charge assigns him ; for she had previously told 
her brother, that though she consented, at his importunity, to 
make part of the exhibition, it was as a piece of the scene, not 
as an actor, and accordingly a painted figure could scarce be 
more immovable. The expression of her countenance seemed to 
be that of deep sorrow and perplexity, belonging to her part, over 
which wandered at times an air of irony or ridicule, as if she were 
secretly scorning the whole exhibition, and even herself for con- 
descending to become part of it. Above all, a sense of bash- 
fulness had cast upon her cheek a color, which, though 
sufficiently slight, was more than her countenance was used to 
display ; and when the spectators beheld, in the splendor and 
grace of a rich Oriental dress, her whom they had hitherto been 
accustomed to see attired only in the most careless manner, 
they felt the additional charms of surprise and contrast ; so that 
the burst of applause which were volleyed toward the stage, 
might be said to be addressed to her alone, and to vie in sin- 
cerity with those which have been forced from an audience by 
the most accomplished performer. 

“Oh that puir Lady Penelope!” said honest Mrs. Blower, 
who, when her scruples against the exhibition were once got 


204 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


over, began to look upon it with particular interest,—“ I am 
really sorry for her puir face, for she gars it work like the sails 
of John Blower’s vesshel in a stiff breeze.—Oh, Doctor Cackle- 
hen, dinna ye think she wad need, if it were possible, to rin 
ower her face wi’ a gusing iron, just to take the wrunkles out 
o’t ? 9 

‘“‘ Hush, hush! my good dear Mrs. Blower,” said the Doctor ; 
‘Lady Penelope is a woman of quality, and my patient, and 
such people always act charmingly—you must understand there 
is no hissing at a private theatre—Hem !”’ 

“Ye may say what ye like, Doctor, but there is nae fule like 
and auld fule—to be sure, if she was as young and beautiful as 
Miss Mowbray—hegh me, and I didna use to think her sae 
bonny neither—but dress—dress makes an anco difference— 
That shawl o’ hers—I daur say the like o’t was ne’er seen in 
braid Scotland—It will be real Indian, I’se warrant.” 

“Real Indian!” saiad Mr. Touchwood, in an accent of dis- 
dain, which rather disturbed Mrs. Blower’s equanimity,—“ why, 
what do you suppose it should be, madam ?” 

‘“‘T dinna ken, sir,” said she, edging somewhat nearer the 
Doctor, not being altogether pleased, as she afterward allowed, 
with the outlandish appearance and sharp tone of the traveler ; 
then pulling her own drapery round her shoulders, she added, 
courageously, ‘There are braw shawls made at Paisley, that ye 
will scarce ken frae foreign.” 

‘Not know Paisley shawls from Indian, madam!”’ said 
Touchwood ; “‘why, a blind man could tell by the slightest 
touch of his little finger. Yon shawl, now, is the handsomest I 
have seen in Britain—and at this distance I can tell it to be a 
real Zozie,” 

‘““Cozie may she weel be that wears it,’ said Mrs. Blower. 
** T declare, now I look on’t again, it’s a perfect beauty.” 

“Tt is called Tozie, ma’am, not cozie,’’ continued the tra- 
veler; “the Shroffs at Surat told me, in 1801, that it is made 
out of the inner coat of a goat.” 

Of a sheep, sir, I am thinking ye mean, for goats has nae 
woo’.” 

“Not much of it, indeed, madam; but you are to under- 
stand that they use only the inmost coat; and then their dyes— 
that Tozie now will keep its color while there is a rag of it left 
—men bequeath them in legacies to their grandchildren.” 

‘And a very bonny color it is,” said the dame ; “‘ something 
like a mouse’s back, only a thought redder—I wonder what 
they ca’ that color.” 

“The color is much admired, madam,” said Touchwood, 


ST, RONAN’S WELL. 208 


who was now on a favorite topic; ‘‘the Mussulmans say the 
color is betwixt that of an elephant and the breast of the 
Jaughia.”’ | 

“In troth, I am as wise as I was,” said Mrs. Blower. 

“The faughta, madam, so called by the Moors (for the 
Hindoos call it Zo//ah), is a sort of pigeon, held sacred among 
the Moslem of India, because they think it dyed its breast in 
the blood of Alii—But I see they are closing the scene.—Mr. 
Cargill, are you composing your sermon, my good friend, or 
what can you be thinking of?” 

Mr. Cargill had, during the whole scene, remained with his 
eyes fixed, in intent and anxious, although almost unconscious 
gaze, upon Clara Mowbray; and when the voice of his com- 
panion startled him out of his reverie, he exclaimed, ‘‘ Most 
lovely—most unhappy—yes—I must and will see her!” 

** See her?” replied Touchwood, too much accustomed to 
his friend’s singularities to look for much reason or connection 
in anything he said or did; ‘‘ Why, you shall see her and talk 
to her too, if that will give you pleasure.—They say now,” he 
continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, “that this Mowbray 
is ruined. I see nothing like it, since he can dress out his 
sister like a Begum. Did you ever see such a splendid 
shawl ? ” 

*“* Dearly purchased splendor,” said Mr. Cargill, with a deep 
sigh; “I wish that the price be yet fully paid!” 

“Very likely not,” said the traveler; ‘‘ very likely it’s gone 
to the book; and for the price, I have known a thousand 
rupees given for such a shawl in the country.—But hush, hush, 
we are to have another tune from Nathaniel—faith, and they 
are withdrawing the screen—Well, they have some mercy—they 
do not let us wait long between the acts of their follies at least 
—I love a quick and rattling fire in these vanities—Folly 
walking a funeral pace, and clinking her bells to the time of a 
passing knell, make sad work indeed.” 

A strain of music, beginning slowly, and terminating in a 
light and wild allegro, introduced on the stage those delightful 
creatures of the richest imagination that ever teemed with 
wonders, the Oberon and Titania of Shakespeare. The pigmy 
majesty of the captain of the fairy band had no inapt repre- 
sentative in Miss Digges, whose modesty was not so great an 
intruder as to prevent her desire to present him in all his 
dignity, and she moved, conscious of the graceful turn of a 
pretty ankle, which, encircled with a string of pearls, and 
clothed in flesh-colored silk, of the most cobweb texture, rose 
above the crimson sandal. Her jeweled tiara, too, gave dignity 


Y 
; i 


to the frown with which the offended King of Shadows greeted 
his consort, as each entered upon the scene at the head of their 
several attendants. 

The restlessness of the children had been duly considered ; 
and therefore, their part of the exhibition had been contrived 
to represent dumb show, rather than a stationary picture. The 
little Queen of Elves was not inferior in action to her moody 
lord, and repaid, with a look of female impatience and scorn, 
the haughty air which séemed to express his sullen greeting, 


206 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“Tll_ met by moonlight, proud Titania.” 


The other children were, as usual, some clever and forward, 
some loutish and awkward enough; but the gambols of child- 
hood are sure to receive applause, paid, perhaps, with a mixture 
of pity and envy, by those in advanced life; and besides, there 
were in the company several fond papas and mammas, whose 
clamorous approbation, though given apparently to the whole 
performers, was especially dedicated in their hearts to their own 
little Jackies and Marias,—for J/ary, though the prettiest and 
most classical of Scottish names, is now unknown in the land. 
The elves, therefore, played their frolics, danced a measure, and 
vanished with good approbation. 

The anti- mask, as it may be called, of Bottom, and his com- 
pany of actors, next appeared on the stage, and a thunder of 
applause received the young Earl, who had, with infinite taste 
and dexterity, transformed “himself into the similitude of an 
Athenian clown; observing the Grecian costume, yet so judici- 
ously discriminated from the dress of the higher characters, as 
at once to fix the character of a thick-skinned mechanic on the 
wearer. ‘Touchwood, in particular, was loud in his approbation, 
from which the correctness of the costume must be inferred ; for 
that honest gentleman, like many other critics, was indeed not 
very much distinguished for good taste, but had a capital 
memory for petty matters of fact; and while the most impres- 
sive look or gesture of an actor might have failed to interest 
him, would have censured most severely the fashion of a sleeve, 
or the color of a shoe-tie. 

But the Earl of Etherington’s merits were not confined to his 
external appearance ; for, had his better fortunes failed him, 
his deserts, like those of Hamlet, might have got him a fellow, 
ship in a cry of players. He presented, though i in dumb show: 
the pragmatic conceit of Bottom, to the infinite amusement of 
all present, especially of those who were well acquainted with 
the original ; and when he was “translated” by Puck, he bore 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 204 
the ass’s head, his newly-acquired dignity, with an appearance 
of conscious greatness, which made the metamorphosis, though 
in itself sufficiently farcical, irresistibly comic. He afterward 
displayed the same humor in his frolics with the fairies, and 
the intercourse which he held with Messrs. Cobweb, Mustard- 
seed, Pease-blossom, and the rest of Titania’s cavaliers, who lost 
all command of their countenances at the gravity with which he 
invited them to afford him the luxury of scratching his hairy 
snout. Mowbray had also found a fitting representative for 
Puck in a queer-looking, small eyed boy of the Aultoun of St. 
Ronan’s, with large ears projecting from his head like turrets 
from a Gothic building. This exotic animal personified the 
merry and mocking spirit of Hobgoblin with considerable power, 
so that the group bore some résemblance to the well-known and 
exquisite delineation of Puck by Sir Joshua, in the select collec- 
tion of the Bard of Memory. It was, however, the ruin of the 
St. Ronan’s Robin Goodfellow, who did no good afterward,— 
“aed an ill gate,’’ as Meg Dods said, and “took on” witha 
party of strolling players. 

The entertainment closed with a grand parade of all the 
characters that had appeared, during which Mowbray concluded 
that the young lord himself, unremarked, might have time 
enough to examine the outward form, at least, of his sister 
Clara, whom, in the pride of his heart, he could not help con- 
sidering superior in beauty, dressed as she now was, with every 
advantage of art, even to the brilliant Amazon, Lady Binks. 
It is true, Mowbray was not a man to give preference to the 
intellectual expression of poor Clara’s features over the sultana- 
like beauty of the haughty dame, which promised to an admirer 
all the vicissitudes that can be expressed by a countenance 
lovely in every change, and changing as often as an ardent and 
impetuous disposition, unused to constraint, and despising 
admonition, should please to dictate. Yet, to do him justice, 
though his preference was perhaps dictated more by fraternal 
partiality than by purity of taste, he certainly, on the present 
occasion, felt the full extent of Clara’s superiority ; and there 
was a proud smile on his lip, as, at the conclusion of the 
divertisement, he asked the Earl how he had been pleased. 
The rest of the performers had separated, and the young lord 
remained on the stage, employed in disembarrassing himself 
of his awkward visor, when Mowbray put this question, to 
which, though general in terms, he naturally gave a particular 
meaning. 

“IT could wear my ass’s head forever,” he said, “ on condi- 
tion my eyes were to be so delightfully employed as they 


208 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


have been during the last scene.—Mowbray, your sister is an 
angel!” 

‘“‘ Have acare that that head-piece of yours has not perverted 
your taste, my lord,” said Mowbray. ‘‘ But why did you wear 
that disguise on your last appearance? You should, I think, 
have been uncovered.” 

**J am ashamed to answer you,” said the Earl; “ but truth 
is, first impressions are of consequence, and I thought I might 
do as wisely not to appear before your sister, for the first time, 
in the character of Bully Bottom.” 

“Then you change your dress, my lord, for dinner, if we call 
our luncheon by that name ?”’ said Mowbray. 

“I am going to my room this instant for that very purpose,” 
replied the Earl, 

“And I,” said Mowbray, “‘ must step in front and dismiss 
the audience; for I see they are .sitting gaping there, waiting 
for another scene.” 

They parted upon this; and Mowbray, as Duke Theseus, 
stepped before the screen, and announcing the conclusion of the 
dramatic pictures which they had had the honor to present 
before the worshipful company, thanked the spectators for the 
very favorable reception which they had afforded ; and intimated 
to them, that if they could amuse themselves by strolling for an 
hour among the gardens, a bell would summon to the house at 
the expiry of that time, when some refreshments would wait 
their acceptance. ‘This annunciation was received with the ap- 
plause due to the Amphitryon ou on dine; and the guests, 
arising from before the temporary theatre, dispersed through the 
gardens, which were of some extent, to seek for or to create 
amusement to themselves. The music greatly aided them in 
this last purpose, and it was not long ere a dozen of couples 
and upward were “tripping it on the light fantastic toe” (I 
love a phrase that is not hackneyed), to the tune of Monymusk. 

Others strolled through the grounds meeting some quaint 
disguise at the end of every verdant alley, and communicating 
to others the surprise and amusement which they themselves 
were receiving. The scene, from the variety of dresses, the 
freedom which it gave to the display of humor amongst such 
as possessed any, and the general disposition to give and receive 
pleasure, rendered the little masquerade more entertaining than 
others of the kind for which more ample and magnificent prep- 
arations have been made. ‘There was also a singular and 
pleasing contrast between the fantastic figures who wandered 
through the gardens, and the quiet scene itself, to which the 
old clipt hedges, the formal distribution of the ground, and the 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 209 


antiquated appearance of one or two fountains and artificial 
cascades, in which the naiads had been for the norce compelled 
to resume their ancient frolics, gave an appearance of unusual 
simplicity and seclusion, and which seemed rather to belong to 
the last than to the present generation. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. 
PERPLEXITIES, 


For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours, 
Fore-run fair Love, strewing his way with flowers. 
LoveE’s LABOR Lost. * 


Worthies, away—the scene begins to cloud. 
IBIDEM. 


Mr. Toucuwoop and his inseparable friend, Mr. Cargill, 
wandered on amidst the gay groups we have described, the 
former censuring “with great scorn the frequent attempts which 
he observed toward an imitation of the costume of the East, 
and appealing with self-complacency to his own superior repre- 
sentation, as he greeted in Moorish and in Persic the several 
turban’d figures who passed his way; while the clergyman, 
whose mind seemed to labor with some weighty and important 
project, looked in every direction for the fair representative of 
- Helena, but in vain. At length he caught a glimpse of the 
memorable shawl, which had drawn forth so learned a dis- 
cussion from his companion; and started from Touchwood’s 
side with a degree of anxious alertness totally foreign to his 
usual habits, he endeavored to join the person by whom it was 
worn. 

“ By the Lord,” said his companion, ‘‘ the Doctor is beside 
himself !—the parson is mad !—the divine is out of his senses, 
that is clear; and how the devil can- he, who scarce can find 
his road from the Cleikum to his own manse, venture himself 
unprotected into such a scene of confusion ?—he might as well 
pretend to cross the Atlantic without a pilot—I must push off 
in chase of him, lest worse come of it.” 

But the traveler was prevented from executing his friendly 
purpose by a sort of crowd which came rushing down the alley, 
the centre of which was occupied hy Captain MacTurk, in the 
very act of bullying two pseudo Highlanders, for having pre- 


210 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


sumed to lay aside their breeches before they had acquired the 
Gaelic language. The sounds of contempt and insult with 
which the genuine Celt was overwhelming the unfortunate im- 
postors, were not, indeed, intelligible otherwise than from the 
tone and manner of the speaker; but these intimated so much 
displeasure, that the plaided forms whose unadvised choice of 
a disguise had provoked it—two raw lads from a certain great 
manufacturing town—heartily repented their temerity, and 
were in the act of seeking for the speediest exit from the 
gardens; rather choosing to resign their share of the dinner, 
than to abide the further consequences that might follow from 
the displeasure of this Highland Termagant. 

Touchwood had scarcely extricated himself from this im- 
pediment, and again commenced his researches after the clergy- 
man, when his course was once more interrupted by a sort of 
press-gang, headed by Sir Bingo Binks, who, in order to play 
his character of a drunken boatswain to the life, seemed cer- 
tainly drunk enough, however little of a seaman. His cheer 
sounded more like a view-hollo than a hail, when, with a volley 
of such oaths as would have blown a whole fleet of the Bethel 
Union out of the water, he ordered Touchwood “to come 
under his lee, and be d—d; for, smash his old timbers, he 
must go to sea again, for as weather-beaten a hulk as he was.” 

Touchwood answered instantly, ““To sea with all my 
heart, but not with a land-lubber for commander.—Hark ye, 
brother, do you know how much of a horse’s furniture belongs 
to a ship?” 

“Come, none of your quizzing, my old buck,” said Sir 
Bingo—“ What the devil has a ship to do with a horse’s furni- 
ture ?—Do you think we belong to the horse-marines ?—ha! 
ha! I think you’re matched, brother.” 

“Why, you son of a fresh-water gudgeon,” replied the tray- 
eler, ‘that never in your life sailed further than the Isle of 
Dogs, do you pretend to play a sailor, and not know the bridle 
of the bow-line, and the saddle of the boltsprit, and the bit for 
the cable, and the girth to hoist the rigging, and the whip to 
serve for small tackle ?—There is a trick for you to find out 
an Abramman, and save sixpence when he begs of you as a dis- 
banded seaman.—Get along with you! or the constable shall 
be charged with the whole press-gang to man the workhouse!” 

A general laugh arose at the detection of the swaggering 
boatswain ; and all that the Baronet had for it was to’sneak off, 
saying, “‘ D—n the old quiz, who the devil thought to have 
heard so much slang from an old muslin nightcap ? ” 

Touchwood, being how an object of some attention, was 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 21t 


followed by two or three stragglers, whom he endeavored to 
rid himself of the best way he could, testifying an impatience 
a little inconsistent with the decorum of his Oriental de- 
meanor, but which arose from his desire to rejoin his com- 
panion, and some apprehension of inconvenience which he 
feared Cargill might sustain during hisabsence. For, being in 
fact. as good-natured a man as any in the world, Mr. Touch- 
wood was at the same time one of the most conceited, and was 
very apt to suppose, that his presence, advice, and assistance, 
were of the most indispensable consequence to those with 
whom he lived; and that not only on great emergencies, but 
even in the most ordinary occurrences of life. 

Meantime, Mr. Cargill, whom he sought in vain, was, on his 
part anxiously keeping in sight of the beautiful Indian shawl, 
which served as a flag to announce to him the vessel which he 
held in chase. At length he approached so close as to say, in 
an anxious whisper, ‘Miss Mowbray—Miss Mowbray—lI must 
speak with you.’ 

+“ And what would you have with Miss Mowbray ?.”’ said the 
fair wearer of the bedutriyl shawl, but without turning round 
her head. 

I have a secret—an important secret, of which to make 
you aware ; but it is not for this place—Do not turn from me ! 
-—Your happiness i in this, and perhaps in the next life, depends 
on your listening to me.’ 

The lady led the way, as if to give him an opportunity of 
speaking with her more privately, to one of those old-fashioned 
and deeply-embowered recesses, which are commonly found in 
such. gardens as that of Shaws Castle; and, with her shawl 
wrapped around her head, so as in some degree to conceal her 
features, she stood before Mt. Cargill:in the doubtful light and 
shadow of a huge platanus-tree, which formed the canopy of 
the arbor, and seemed to await the communication he had 
promised. 

** Report says,’ ’ said the clergyman, speaking in an eager 
and hurried manner, yet with alow voice, like one desirous of 
being heard by her whom he addressed, and by no one else,— 
“Report says that you are about to be married.” 

-“ And.is report kind enough to say to whom ?.” answered 
the lady, with a tone of indifference which: shesakel to astound 
her interrogator. —. 

“Young: lady,” he answered, with a solemn voice, ‘had this 
levity been ‘sworn to me, I could never:have believed it? Have 
you forgot the circumstances in :which you stand ?—-Have you 
forgotten that my promise of secrecy, sinful perhaps even in 


212 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


that degree, was but a conditional promise ?—or did you think 
that a being so sequestered as I am was already dead to the 
world, even while he was walking upon its surface ?—Know, 
young lady, that I am indeed dead to the pleasures and the or- 
dinary business of life, but I am even therefore the more alive 
to its duties.” 

““Upon my honor, sir, unless you are pleased to be more 
explicit, it is impossible for me either to answer or understand 
you,” said the lady ; “‘ you speak too seriously for a masquerade 
pleasantry, and yet not clearly enough to make your earnest 
comprehensible.” 

“Ts this sullenness, Miss Mowbray ?” said the clergyman, 
with increased animation; ‘‘ Is it levity ?—-Or is it alienation of 
mind ?—Even after a fever of the brain, we retain a recollec- 
tion of the causes of our illness.—Come, you must and do un- 
derstand me, when I say that I will not consent to your com- 
mitting a great crime to attain temporal wealth and rank, no, 
not to make you an empress. My path is a clear one; and 
should I hear a whisper breathed of your alliance with this 
Earl, or whatever he may be, rely upon it, that I will withdraw 
the veil, and make your brother, your bridegroom, and the 
whole world, acquainted with the situation in which you stand, 
and the impossibility of your forming the alliance which you 
propose to yourself, I am compelled to say, against the laws of 
God and man.’ 

“ But, Sit>-sit;? ’ answered the lady, rather eagerly than 
anxiously, ‘you have not yet told me what business you have 
with my marriage, or what arguments you can bring against it.” 

** Madam,” ‘replied Mr. Cargill, ‘“in your present state of 
mind, and in such a scene as this, I cannot enter upon a topic 
for which the season is unfit, and you, I am sorry to.say, are 
totally unprepared. It is enough that you know the grounds 
on which you stand. At a fitter opportunity, I will, as it is my 
duty, lay before you the enormity of what you are said to 
have meditated, with the freedom which becomes one, who, 
however humble, is appointed to explain to his fellow-creatures 
the laws of his Maker. In the meantime, I'am not afraid that 
you will take any hasty step, after such a warning as this,” 

So saying, he turned from the lady with that dignity which 
a conscious discharge of duty confers, yet, at the same time, 
with a sense of deep pain, inflicted by the careless levity of 
her whom he addressed. She did not any longer attempt to 
detain him, but made her escape from.the arbor by one alley, 
as she heard voices which seemed to approach it from another. 
The clergyman, who took the opposite direction, met in full 


f 


ST. RONAN’'S WELL. 213 


encounter a whispering and tittering pair, who seemed, at his 
sudden appearance, to check their tone of familiarity, and 
assume an appearance of greater distance toward each other. 
The lady was no other than the fair Queen of the Amazons, 
who seemed to have adopted the recent partiality of Titania 
toward Bully Bottom, being in conference such and so close as 
we: have described, with the late representative of the Athenian 
weaver, whose recent visit to his chamber had metamorphosed 
into the more gallant disguise of an ancient Spanish cavalier. 
He now appeared with cloak and drooping plume, sword, pon- 
iard, and guitar, richly dressed at all points, as for a serenade 
beneath his mistress’s window ; a silk mask at the breast of his 
embroidered doublet hung ready to be assumed in case of in- 
trusion, aS an appropriate part of the national dress. 

' It sometimes happened to Mr. Cargill, as we believe it may 
chance to other men much subject to absence of mind, that, 
contrary to their wont, and much after the manner of a sun- 
beam suddenly piercing a deep mist, and illuminating one par- 
ticular object in the landscape, some sudden recollection rushes 
upon them, and seems to compel them to act under it, as 
under the influence of complete certainty and conviction. Mr. 
Cargill had no sooner set eyes on the Spanish Cavalier, in 
whom he neither knew the Earl of Etherington, nor recognized 
Bully Bottom, than with hasty motion he seized on his reluct- 
ant hand, and exclaimed, with a mixture of eagerness and 
solemnity, “‘ I rejoice to see you !—Heaven has sent you here 
in its own good time.” 

-“T thank you, sir,” replied Lord Etherington, very coldly; 
“‘T believe you have the joy of the meeting entirely on your 
side, as I cannot remember having seen you before.’ 

“Ts not your name Bulmer?” said the clergyman: “ I—I 
know—I am sometimes apt to make mistakes—But I am sure 
your name is Bulmer ?”’ 

“Not that ever I or my godfathers heard of—my name was 
Bottom half-an-hour ago—perhaps that makes the confusion,” 
answered the Earl, with very cold and distant politeness ;— 
‘Permit me to pass, sir, that I may attend the lady.” 

“ Quite unnecessary,”. answered Lady Binks; “I leave you 
to adjust your mutual recollections with your new old friend, my 
lord—he seems to have something to say.” So saying, the 
lady walked on, not perhaps sorry of ‘an’ opportunity'to show 
apparent indifference for his lordship’s society, in the presence 
of one who had surprised them in what might seem a moment 
of exuberant intimacy. 

- “ You detain me, sir,’’ said the Earl of Etherington to Mt, 


B14 ST, RONANS WELL, 


Cargill, who, bewildered and uncertain, still kept himself 
placed so directly before the young nobleman, as to make it 
impossible for him to pass, without absolutely pushing him to 
one side. ‘I must really attend the lady,” he added, making 
another effort to walk on. 

“Young man,” said Mr. Cargill, “you cannot disguise your- 
self from me. I am sure—my mind assures me, that you are 
that very Bulmer whom Heaven has sent here to: prevent 
crime.” 

“ And you,” said Lord Etherington, “whom my mind as- 
sures me I never saw in my life, are sent hither by the devil, I 
think, to create confusion.” 

““T beg. pardon, sir,” said the clergyman, staggered by the 
calm and pertinacious denial of the Earl—‘I beg pardon if I 
am in a mistake—that is, if I am vea//y in a mistake—but I am 
not—I am sure I am not—That look—that smile—I am: NOT 
mistaken. You ave Valentine. Bulmer—the very. Valentine 
Bulmer whom I—but I will not make your private affairs any 
part of this exposition—enough, you ave Valentine Bulmer.” 

‘“‘ Valentine ?—Valentine?” answered Lord. Etherington, 
impatiently —‘ I am ) neither Valentine nor Orson—I wish you 
good-morning, sir.’ 

“« Stay, sir, stay, I charge you,” said the clergyman ; ‘ Gf you 
are unwilling to be known yourself, it may be because you have 
forgotten who I am—Let ‘me name myself as the Reverend 
Josiah Cargill, minister of St. Ronan’s.” 

“ Tf you bear a character so venerable, sir,” replied the young 
nobleman,—‘“ in which, however, [ am not in the least interest- 
ed,—I think ‘when you make your morning draught a little’ too 
potent, it might be as well for you to stay, at home and sleep it 
off, before coming into company.’ 

“In the name. of Heaven, young gentleman,”’ said Mr. Car- 
gill, ‘lay aside this untimely and unseemly. jesting ! and tell 
me if you be not—as I cannot but still believe you to be—that 
same youth, who, seven years since, left in my deposit a solemn 
secret, which, if I should unfold to the wrong person, woe would 
be my own heart, and evil the consequences which might en- 
sue !”’ 

“You are very pressing with me, sir,” said the Earl; “and, 
in exchange, I will be. equally frank with you.—I am not the 
man whom you mistake me for, and you may go seek him 
where you will—It will be still more lucky for you if you chance 
to find your own wits in the course of your researches.; for I 
must tell you plainly, I think they are gone somewhat, astray.” 
So saying, with a gesture expressive of a determined purpose to 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 218 


pass on, Mr, Cargill had no alternative but to make way, and 
suffer him to proceed. 

The worthy clergyman stood as if rooted to the ground, and, 
with his usual habit of thinking aloud, exclaimed to himself, 
‘My fancy has played me many a bewildering trick, but this 
is the most extraordinary of them all !—What can this young 
man think of me? It must have been my conversation with 
that unhappy young lady that has made such an impression up- 
on me as to deceive my very eye-sight, and causes me to con- 
nect with her history the face of the next person that I met— 
What must the stranger think of me?” 

“Why, what every one thinks of thee that knows thee, 
prophet,” said the friendly voice of Touchwood, accompanying 
his speech with an awakening slap on the clergyman’s shoulder ; 
“and that is, that thou art an unfortunate philosopher of 
Laputa, who has lost his flapper in the throng.—-Come along— 
having me once more by your side you need fear nothing. 
Why, now I look at you closer, you look as if you had seen a 
basilisk—not that there is any such thing, otherwise I must 
have seen it myself, in the course of my travels—but you seem 
pale and frightened—What the devil is the matter?” 

“Nothing,” answered the clergyman, “except that I have 
even this very moment made an egregious fool of myself.” 

“Pooh, pooh, that is nothing to sigh over, prophet.—Every 
man does so at least twice in the four-and-twenty hours,” said 
Touchwood. . 

“But I had nearly betrayed to a stranger a secret deeply 
concerning the honor of an ancient family,” 

~-“ That was wrong, Doctor,” said Touchwood ; “ take care of 
that in future ; and, indeed, I would advise you not to speak even 
to your beadle, Johnny Tirlsneck, until you have assured your- 
self by at least three pertinent questions and answers, that you 
have the said Johnny corporeally and substantially in presence 
before you, and that your fancy has not invested some stranger 
with honest Johnny’s singed periwig and threadbare brown 
joseph—Come along—come along.” — . 

So saying, he hurried forward the perplexed clergyman, 
who in vain made all the excuses he could think of in order to 
effect his escape from the scene of gayety, in which he was so un- 
expectedly involved. He pleaded headache ; and his friend assur- 
ed him that a mouthful of food, and a glass of wine, would mend 
it. He stated he had business; and Touchwood replied that 
he could have none but composing his next sermon, and re- 
minded him that it-was two days till Sunday, At length, Mr. 
Cargill confessed that he had some reluctance agaiu to see the 


216 SZ. RONAN’S WELL, 


stranger, on whom he had endeavored with such. pertinacity to 
fix an acquaintance, which he was now well assured existed only 
in his own imagination, The traveler treated his scruples with 
scorn, and said, that guests meeting in this general manner, 
had no more to do with each other than if they were assembled 
in a caravansary. 

“So that you need not say a word to him in the way of 
apology or otherwise—or, what will be still better, I, who have 
seen so much of the world, will make the pretty speech for 
you.” As they spoke, he drageed the divine toward the house, 
where they were now summoned by the appointed signal, and 
where the company were assembling in the old saloon already 
noticed, previous to passing into the dining-room, where the 
refreshments were prepared. ‘‘ Now, Doctor,” continued the 
busy friend of Mr. Cargill, “ let us see which of all these peo- 
ple has been the subject of your blunder. Is it yon animal of 
a Highlandman ?—or the impertimnent brute that wants to be 
thought a boatswain? or which of them all is it?—-Ay, here 
they < come, two and two, Newgate fashion—the young Lord of 
the’ Manor with old Lady Penelope—does he set up for Ulysses, 
I wonder?—The Earl of Etherington with Lady Bingo—me- 
thinks it should have been with Miss Mowbray.” 

“The Earl of what did you say?” quoth the clergyman, 
anxiously. ‘“ How is it you titled that young man in the 
Spanish dress? ” 

“Oho!” said the traveler; ‘ what, I have discovered the 
goblin that has. scared you?—-Come along—come along—I 
will make you acquainted with him.” So saying, he dragged 
him toward Lord Etherington; and before the divine could 
make his negative intelligible, the ceremony of introduction 

had taken place. ‘“ My Lord ‘Etherington, allow me to present 
Mr. Cargill, minister of. this parish——a earned. gentleman, 
whose head is often in the Holy Land, when his person seems 
present among his friends. He suffers extremely, my lord, 
under the sense of mistaking your lordship for the Lord : knows 
who; but when you are acquainted with him, you. will find that 
he can make a hundred stranger mistakes than that, so we hope 
that your lordship will take no prejudice or offence.” 

‘There can be no offence taken where no offence is in- 
tended,” said Lord Etherington with much urbanity. |“ It is I 
who ought to beg the reverend gentleman’s pardon, for hurry- 
ing from him without allowing him to make a complete | é/air- 
cissement. 1 beg his pardon for an abruptness which the place 
and the time—for I was immediately engaged in a lady’s ser- 
vice—rendered unavoidable.” | 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. ary 
Mr. Cargill gazed on the young nobleman as he pronounced 
these words, with the easy indifference of one who apologizes 
to an inferior in order to maintain his own character for polite- 
ness, but with perfect indifference whether his excuses are or 
are not held satisfactory. And as the clergyman gazed, the 
belief which had so strongly clung to him that the Earl of 
Etherington and young Valentine Bulmer were the same indi- 
vidual person, melted away like frost-work before the morning 
sun, and that so completely, that he marveled at himself for 
having ever entertained it. Some strong resemblance of features 
there must have been to have led him into such a delusion; 
but the person, the tone, the manner of expression, were abso- 
lutely different ; and his attention being now especially directed 
toward these particulars, Mr. Cargill was inclined to think the 
two personages almost totally dissimilar. 

The clergyman had now only to make his apology and fall 
back from the head of the table to some lower seat, which his 
modesty would have preferred, when he was suddenly seized 
upon by the Lady Penelope Penfeather, who, detaining him in 
the most elegant and persuasive manner possible insisted that 
they should be introduced to each other by Mr. Mowbray, and 
that Mr. Cargill should sit beside her at table-—She had heard 
so much of his learning—so much of his excellent character— 
‘desired so much to make his acquaintance, that she could not 
think of losing an opportunity, which Mr. Cargill’s learned 
seclusion rendered so very rare—in a word, catching the Black 
Lion was the order of the day ; and her ladyship having trap- 
ped her prey, soon sat triumphant with him by her side. 

A second separation was thus effected betwixt Touchwood 
and his friend ; for the former, not being included in the invi- 
tation, or, indeed, at all noticed by Lady Penelope, was obliged 
to find room at a lower part of the table, where he excited much 
surprise by the dexterity with which he despatched boiled rice 
with chop-sticks. 

Mr. Cargill being thus exposed, without a consort, to the fire 
of Lady Penelope, speedily found it so brisk and incessant, as 
to drive his complaisance, little tried as it had been for many 
years by small talk, almost to extremity. She began by beg- 
ging him to draw his chair close, for an instinctive terror of fine 
ladies had made him keep his distance. At the same time she 
hoped “ he was not afraid of her as an Episcopalian; her father 
had belonged to that communion ; for,” she added, with what 
was intended for an arch smile, “ we were somewhat naughty 
in the forty-five, as you may have ead but all that was over, 
and she was sure Mr Cargill was too liberal to entertain any 


218 ST. RONAN’S WELL. eon se 
he % 

amaruart or ‘shyness c on that score.—She could assure him she was 
far from disliking the Presbyterian form—indeed she had often 
wished to hear it, where she was sure to be both delighted and 
edified ”’ (here a gracious smile), “in the church of St. Ronan’s 
—and hoped to do so whenever Mr. Mowbray had got a stove, 
which he had ordered from Edinburgh, on purpose to air his 
pew for her accommodation.” | 

All this, which was spoken with wreathed smiles and nods, 
and so much civility as to remind the clergyman of a cup of tea 
over-sweetened to conceal its want of strength and flavor, 
required and received no further answer than an accommodat- 
ing look and acquiescent bow. 

“Ah, Mr. Cargill,” continued the inexhaustible Lady Pe- 
nelope, ; your ‘profession has so many demands on the heart as 
well as the understanding—is so much connected with the kind- 
nesses and charities of our nature—with our best and purest 
feelings, Mr. Cargill! You know what Goldsmith says :— 


‘in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watched, and wept, and felt, and prayed for all.’ 


And then Dryden has sucha picture of a parish) priest. so 
inimitable, one would think, did we not hear now and then of 
some living mortal presuming to emulate its features” ( here 
another insinuating nod and expressive smile). 


“ * Refined himself,to soul, to curb the sense 
And almost made asin ‘of abstinence, 
Yet had his aspect nothing of severe, 
But such'a face as ‘promised him! sincere ey 
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see, 
But sweet regard and ipledsing senctitys 


While: her Prtsnes declaimed, the clergyman’ 5. wandering 
eye confessed his absent mind ; his thoughts traveling, perhaps 
to: accomplish a truce betwixt Saladin. and Conrade of Mount- 
serrat, unless they chanced to be occupied with some occur- 
rences of that very day, so that the lady was obliged to recall 
her indocile auditor with the leading question, “ You are well 
-acquainted with Dryden, of course, Mr. Cargill ? ” 

“ T have not the honor, madam,” said Mr. Cargill, starting 
from his reverie, and but half understanding the question he 
replied to. 

.., “ Sir 1? said the lady, surprised. 
‘“‘ Madam lary lady.!.” answered Mr. Cargill, in embarrass 
ment. aie’ : 


ee 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 219 


“fT asked you if you admired Dryden ;—but you learned 
men are so absent—perhaps you thought I said Leyden.” 

“A lamp too early quenched, madam,” said Mr, Cargill; ‘I 
knew him well.” 

“And so did I,” eagerly replied the lady of the cerulean 
buskin ; “ he spoke ten languages—-how mortifying to poor me, 
Mr. Cargill, who could only boast of five !—but I have studied 
a little since that time—I must have you to help me in my 
studies, Mr. Cargill—it will be charitable—but perhaps you are 
afraid of a female pupil ? ” 

A thrill, arising from former recollections, passed through 
poor Cargill’s mind with as much acuteness as the pass ofa 
rapier might have done through his body ; and we cannot help 
remarking, that a forward prater in society, like a busy bustler 
in a crowd, besides all other general points of annoyance, is 
eternally rubbing upon some tender point, and galling men’s 
feelings, without knowing or regarding it. 

“You must assist me, besides, in my little charities, Mr. 
Cargill, now that you and I are become so well acquainted.— 
There is that Ann Heggie—I sent her a trifle yesterday, but I 
am told—lI should not mention it, but only one would not have 
the little they have to bestow lavished on an improper object— 
Iam told she is not quite proper—an unwedded mother, in short, 
Mr. Cargill—and it would be especially unbecoming in me to 
encourage profligacy.”’ 

“ T believe, madam,” said the clergyman, gravely, ‘the poor 
woman’s distress may justify your ladyship’s. bounty, even if her 
conduct has been faulty.” 

“Oh, I am no prude, neither, I assure you, Mr. Cargill,” 
answered the Lady Penelope. ‘I never withdraw my counte- 
nance from any one but on the most irrefragable grounds. I 
could tell you of an intimate friend of my own, whom I have 
supported against the whole clamor of the people at the Well, 


_ because I believe, from the bottom of my soul, she is only 


thoughtless—nothing in the world but thoughtless—O Mr. 
Cargill, how can you look across the table so intelligently ?— 
who would have thought it of you?-Oh fie, to make such 
personal applications !”’ 

“Upon my word, madam, I am quite at a loss to compre- 
hend ” 

‘“‘Oh fie, fie, Mr. Cargill,” throwing in as much censure and 
surprise as a confidential whisper can convey—“ you looked at 
my Lady Binks—I know what you think, but you are quite 
wrong, I assure you; you are entirely wrong.—I wish she 
would not flirt quite so much with that young Lord Ethering- 


f 


220 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


ton though, Mr. Cargill—her situation is particular—Indeed, I 
believe she wears out his patience; for see he is leaving the 
room before we sit down—how singular !—And then do you not 
think it very odd, too, that Miss Mowbray has not come down 
tous?” 

“Miss Mowbray!—what of Miss Mowbray—is she not 
here ?” said Mr. Cargill, starting, and-with an expression of 
interest which he had not yet bestowed on any of her ladyship’s 
liberal communications. 

“Ay, poor Miss Mowbray,” said Lady Penelope, lowering 
her voice, and shaking her head; ‘‘she has not appeared—her 
brother went up stairs a few minutes since, I believe, to bring 
her down, and so we are all left here to look at each other— 
How very awkward, but you know Clara Mowbray.” 

“T, madam?” said Mr. Cargill, who was now sufficiently 
attentive; ‘I really—I know Miss Mowbray— that is I knew 
her some years since—But your ladyship knows she has been 
long in bad health—uncertain health, at least, and I have seen 
nothing of the young lady for a very long time.” 

“I know it, my dear Mr. Cargill—I know it,” continued the 
Lady Penelope, in the same tone of deep sympathy, “I know 
it; and most unhappy surely have been the circumstances that 
have separated her from your advice and friendly counsel.— 
All this I am aware of—and to say truth, it has been chiefly 
on poor Clara’s account that I have been giving you the trouble 
of fixing an acquaintance upon you.—You and I together, Mr. 
Cargill, might do wonders to cure her unhappy state of mind— 
I am sure we might—that is, if you could bring your mind to 
repose absolute confidence in me.” 

‘“‘ Has Miss Mowbray desired your ladyship to converse with 
me upon any subject which interests her ?”’ said the clergyman, 
with more cautious shrewdness than Lady Penelope had sus- 
pected him of possessing. “I will in that case be happy to 
hear the nature of her communication ; and whatever my poor 
services can perform, your ladyship may command them.” 

‘“‘ [—I—I cannot just assert,” said her ladyship with hesita- 
tion, “‘that I have Miss Mowbray’s direct instructions to speak 
to you, Mr. Cargill, upon the present subject. But my affection 
for the dear girl is so very great—and then, you know, the 
inconveniences which may arise from this match.” 

“From which match, Lady Penelope? ” said Mr, Cargill. 

** Nay, now, Mr: Cargill, you really carry the privilege of 
Scotland too far—I have not put a single question to you, but 
what you have answered by another—let us converse intelligibly 
for five minutes, if you can but condescend so far.” 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 221 


“For any length of time which your ladyship may please to 
command,” said Mr. Cargill, “ provided the subject regard your 
ladyship’s own affairs or mine—could I suppose these last for a 
moment likely to interest you.” 

“Out upon you,” said the lady, laughing affectedly; “you 
should really have been a Catholic priest instead of a Presby- 
terian. What an invaluable father confessor have the fair sex 
lost in you, Mr. Cargill, and how dexterously you would have 
evaded any cross-examination which might have committed 
your penitents!” 

“ Your ladyship’s raillery is far too severe for me to with- 
stand or reply to,” said Mr. Cargill, bowing with more ease 
than her ladyship expected ; and, retiring gently backward, he 
extricated himself from a conversation which he began to find 
somewhat embarrassing. 

At that moment a murmur of surprise took place in the 
apartment, which was just entered by Miss Mowbray, leaning 
on her brother’s arm. The cause of this murmur will be best 
understood by narrating what had passed betwixt the brother 
and sister. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND. 
EXPOSTULATION. 


Seek not the feast in these irreverent robes ; 
Go to-:my chamber—put on clothes of mine. 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, 


Ir was with a mixture of anxiety, vexation, and resentment, 
that Mowbray, just when he had handed Lady Penelope into 
the apartment, where the tables were covered, observed that 
his sister was absent, and that Lady Binks was hanging on the 
arm of Lord Etherington, to whose rank it would properly have 
fallen to escort the lady of the house. An anxious and hasty 
glance cast through the room ascertained that she was absent, 
nor could the ladies present give any account of her after she 
had quitted the gardens, except that Lady Penelope had spoken 
a few words with her in her own apartment, immediately after 
the scenic entertainment was concluded. 

Thither Mowbray hurried, complaining aloud of his sister’s 
laziness in dressing, but internally hoping that the delay was 
occasioned by nothing of a more important character, 


292 ST. RONAN?S WELL. 


He hastened up stairs, entered her sitting-room without 
ceremony, and knocking at the door of her dressing-room, 
begged her to make haste. 

‘Here is the whole company impatient,” he said, assuming 
a tone of pleasantry; ‘‘and Sir Bingo Binks exclaiming for 
your presence, that he may be let loose on the cold meat.” 

“‘ Paddock calls,” said Clara from within; “ anon—anon 

“Nay, it is no jest, Clara,” continued her brother; ‘ for 
Lady Penelope is miauling like a starved cat!” 

“T come—I come, graymalkin,” answered Clara, in the 
same vein as before, and entered the parlor as she spoke, her 
finery entirely thrown aside, and dressed in the riding-habit 
which was her usual and favorite attire. 

Her brother was both surprised and offended. “On my 
soul,” he said, ‘‘ Clara, this is behaving very ill. I indulge you 
in every freak upon ordinary occasions, but you might surely 
on this day, of all others, have condescended to appear some- 
thing like my sister, and a gentlewoman receiving company in 
her own house.” 

“‘Why, dearest John,” said Clara, ‘so that the guests have 
enough to eat and drink, I cannot conceive why I should con- 
cern myself about their finery, or they trouble themselves about 
my plain clothes.” 

‘‘Come, come, Clara, this will not do,” answered Mowbray ; 
“‘you must positively go back into your dressing-room, and 
huddle your things on as fast as youcan. Youcannot go down 
to the company dressed as you are.” 

“YT certainly can, and I certainly will, John—I have made a 
fool of myself once this morning to oblige you, and for the rest 
of the day I am determined to appear in my own dress; that 
is, in one which shows I neither belong to the world, nor wish 
to have anything to do with its fashions.” 

‘By my soul, Clara, I will make you repent this!” said 
Mowbray, with more violence than he usually exhibited where 
his sister was concerned. 

“You cannot, dear John,” she coolly replied, “unless by 
beating me; and that I think you would repent of yourself.” 

‘“*I do not know but what it were the best way of managing 
you,” said Mowbiay, muttering between his teeth; but, com- 
manding his violence, he only said aloud, “ I am sure, from long 
experience, Clara, that your obstinacy will at the long run beat 
my anger. Do let us compound the point for once—keep your 
old habit, since you are so fond of making a sight of yourself, 
and only throw the shawl round your shoulders—it has been 


{?? 


{?? 


ST, RONAN’S WELL. 223 


exceedingly admired, and every woman in the house longs to 
see it closer—they can hardly believe it genuine.” | 

“Do be aman, Mowbray,” answered his sister; “meddle 
with your horse-sheets, and leave shawls alone.” 

“Do you be a woman, Clara, and think a little on them, 
when custom and decency render it necessary.—Nay, is it pos- 
sible !—Will you not stir?—not oblige me in such a trifle as 
this?” DHOg 

“1 would indeed if I could,” said Clara; ‘‘ But ‘since you 
must know the truth—do not be angry—I have not theshawl, I 
have given it away—given it up, perhaps I should say, to the 
rightful owner.—She has promised me something or other in 
exchange for it, however. I have given it to Lady Penelope.” 

“Yes,’”’ answered Mowbray, “some of the work of her own 
fair hands, I suppose, or a couple of her ladyship’s drawings, 
made up into fire-screens.—On my word—on my soul, this is too 
bad !—It is using me too ill, Clara—far too ill.. If the thing had 
been of no value, my giving it to you’ should have fixed some 
upon it.—Good-even to you; we will do as well as we can with- 
out you.” | 

“ Nay, but, my dear John—stay but a moment,” said Clara, 
taking his arm as he sullenly turned toward the door ; “there 
are but two of us on earth—do not let us quarrel about a trum- 
pery shawl.” : | | 

““Trumpery!”’ said Mowbray; “it cost ‘fifty guineas, by: 
G—, which I can but ill spare—trumpery!” 

“Oh, never think of the cost,” said Clara; “it -vas your 
gift, and that should, Town, have been enough to save made me 
eer to my death’s day the poorest rag of it. But really Lady: 
Pe 2iope looked so very miserable, and twisted her poor facé into 
so many oddexpressions of anger and chagria, thatI resigned 
it to her, and agreed to say she had lent it to me for the perform- 
ance. I believe. she was afraid that I would change my mind, 
or that you would resume it as a seignorial waif; for, after she 
had walked a few turns with #¢ wrapped around her, merely by 
way «f taking possession, she despatched it by a’ special mes- 
senger to her apartment at the Well.” 

‘“She may go to the devil,” said Mowbray, “ for a greedy 
unconscionable jade, who has varnished over a selfish, spiteful 
heart, that is as hard as a flint, with a fine glossing of taste and 
sensibility.” | 

‘Nay, but, Johr.,” replied his sister, “she really had some- 
thing to complain of in the present case. The shawl had been 
bespoken on her account, or very nearly so—she showed me the 
tradesman’s letter—only some agent of yours had come in be- 


224 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


tween with the ready money, which no tradesman can resist.— 
Ah, John! I suspect half of your anger is owing to the failure 
of a plan to mortify poor Lady Pen, and that she has more to 
complain of than you have.—Come come, you have had the ad- 
vantage, of her in the first display of this fatal piece of finery, if 
wearing it on my poor shoulders can be called a. display—e’en 
make her welcome to the rest for peace’s sake, and let us go 
down to these good folks, and you shall see how pretty and civil 
I shall behave.” 

Mowbray, a spoiled'child, and with all the petted habits of in- 
dulgence, was exceedingly fretted at the issue of the scheme 
which he had formed for mortifying Lady Penelope ; but he saw 
at once the necessity of saying nothing more to his sister on the 
subject. Vengeance he privately muttered against Lady Pen, 
whom he termed an absolute harpy in blue stockings ; unjustly 
forgetting, that, in the very important affair at issue, he himself 
had’ been the first to interfere with and defeat her ladyship’s 
designs on the garment in question. 

* But, I will, blow her,” he said, “I will blow her ladyship’s 
conduct in the business! She shall not outwit a poor whimsi- 
cal girl like Clara, without hearing iton more sides than one.” 

With this Christian and gentleman-like feeling toward Lady 
Penelope, he escorted his: sister into the eating-room, and led 
her to her proper place at the head of the table. It was the 
negligence displayed in her dress which occasioned the murmur 
of surprise that greeted Clara on her entrance. Mowbray, as 
he placed his sister in her chair, made her general, apology for 
her late appearance, and her riding-habit. “Some fairies,” he 
supposed, ‘‘ Puck, or such like tricksy goblin, had been in her 
wardrobe, and-carried off whatever was fit for wearing.” 

There were answers from every quarter—that it would have 
been too much to expect Miss Mowbray to. dress for their 
amusement, a second. time—that nothing she chose to wear 
could misbecome Miss Mowbray—that she had set like the sun, 
in her splendid scenic dress, and now rose like the full moon 
in her ordinary attire (this flight was by the Reverend Mr, 
Chatterly),—and that ‘“‘ Miss Mowbray being at hame,-had an 
unco, gude right to please hersell ;’’ which last piece of polite- 
ness, being at least. as much to the purpose as any that had 
preceded. it, was the contribution of honest Mrs. Blower, and 
was replied to by Miss Mowbray with a particular and most 
gracious bow. 

Mrs. Blower ought to have rested her colloquial fame, as Dr. 
Johnson would have said, upon a compliment ‘so evidently 
acceptable, but no one knows where to stop. She thrust her 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 226 


broad, good-natured, delighted countenance forward, and send- 
ing her voice from the bottom to the top of the table, like her 
umguhile husband when calling to his mate during a breeze, 
wondered “‘ why Miss Clara Mowbrie didna wear that grand 
shawl she had on at the play-making, and her just sitting upon 
the wind of a door. Nae doubt it was for fear of the soup, and 
the butter-boats and the like ;—but s#e had three shawls, which 
she really fand was ane ower mony—if Miss Mowbrie wad like 
to wear ane o’ them—it was but imitashion to be sure—but it 
wad keep her shouthers as warm as if it were real Indian, and 
if it were dirtied it was the less matter.” 

“Much obliged, Mrs. Blower,” said. Mowbray, unable to 
resist the temptation which this speech offered ; “‘ but my sister 
is not yet of quality sufficient to entitle her to rob her friends 
of their shawls.” 

Lady Penelope colored to the eyes, and bitter was the retort 
that arose to her tongue ; but she suppressed it, and nodding 
to Miss Mowbray in the most friendly way in the world, yet. 
with a very particular expression, she only said, ‘“‘ So you have 
told your brother of the little transaction which we have had 
this morning ?—Zu me lo pagheria—I give. you fair warning, 
take care none of your secrets come into my keeping—that’s 
all.” 

- Upon what mere trifles do the important events of human 
life sometimes depend! If Lady Penelope had given way to 
her first movements of resentment, the probable issue would 
have been some such. half-comic, half-serious skirmish, as her 
ladyship and Mr. Mowbray had often amused the company 
withal, But revenge, which is suppressed and deferred, is 
always most to be dreaded ;' and to the effects of the deliberate 
_resentment which Lady Penelope cherished upon this trifling 
occasion, must be traced the events which our history has to 
record. Secretly did she determine to return the shawl, which 
she had entertained hopes of making her own upon very 
reasonable terms; and as secretly did she resolve to be revenged 
both upon brother and sister, conceiving herself already pos- 
sessed, to a certain degree, of a clew to some part of their 
family history, which might-serve for a foundation on which to 
raise her projected battery. The ancient offences and emula- 
tion of importance. of the Laird of St.. Ronan’s, and the 
superiority which had been given to Clara in the exhibition of 
the day, combined. with the immediate cause of resentment. ; 
and it only remained for her to consider how her revenge could, 
be most signally accomplished. : 
Whilst such thoughts were passing through Lady Penelope’s 


226° ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


mind, Mowbray was searching with his eyes for the Earl of 
Etherington, judging that it might be proper, in the course of 
the entertainment, or before the guests had separated, to make 
him formally acquainted with his sister, as a preface to the 
more intimate connection which must, in prosecution of the 
plan agreed upon, take place betwixt them. Greatly to his 
surprise, the young Earl was nowhere visible, and the place 
which he had occupied by the side of Lady Binks had been 
quietly appropriated by Winterblossom, as the best and softest 
chair in the room, and nearest to the head of the table, where 
the choicest of the entertainment is usually arranged. This 
honest gentleman, after a few insipid compliments to her lady- 
ship upon her performance as Queen of the Amazons, had 
betaken himself to the much more interesting occupation of 
ogling the dishes, through the glass which hung suspended at 
his neck by a gold chain of Maltese workmanship. After 
looking and wondering for a few seconds, Mowbray addressed 
himself to the old beaugar¢on, and asked him what had become 
of Etherington. 

‘“* Retreated,” said Winterblossom, “and left but his compli- 
ments to you behind him—a complaint, I think, in his wounded 
arm—Upon my word, that soup has a most appetizing: flavor ! 
—Lady Penelope, shall I have the honor to help you ?—no! 
—nor you, Lady Binks ?—you are too cruel ; I must comfort 
myself, like a heathen priest of old, by eating the’ sacrifice 
which the deities have scorned to accept of.” rom 

Here. he helped himself to the plate of soup which he had in 
vain offered to the ladies, and transferred the further duty of 
dispensing it to Master Chatterly ; “it is your profession, sir, 
to propitiate the divinities—ahem ! ” 

“T did not think Lord Etherington would have left us so 
soon,” said Mowbray; ‘but we must do the best we can with- 
out his countenance.” 

So saying, he assumed his place at the bottom of the table, 
and did his best to support the character of a hospitable and 
joyous landlord, while on her part, with much natural grace, 
and delicacy of attention calculated to set everybody at their 
ease, his sister presided at the upper end of the board. © But 
the vanishing of Lord Etherington in a’manner so sudden and 
unaccountable—the obvious ill-humor of Lady Penelope—and 
the steady, though passive sullenness of Lady Binks, spread 
among the company a gloom like that produced by an autumnal 
mist upon’ a pleasing landscape.’ The women were low-spirited, 
dull, nay, peevish, they did not well know why ; and the men- 
could not be joyous, though the ready resource of old hock and 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. °224 


champagne made some of them talkative. Lady Penelope 
broke up the party by well-feigned apprehension of the diffi- 
culties, nay, dangers, of returning by so rough a road. © Lady 
Binks begged a seat with her ladyship, as Sir Bingo, she’ said, 
judging from his devotion to the green flask, was likely to need 
their carriage home. From the moment of their departure, it 
became bad tone to remain behind ; and all, as in a retreating - 
army, were eager to be foremost, excepting MacTurk and afew 
stanch topers, who, unused to meet with such good cheer every 
day of their lives, prudently determined to make the most of 
the opportunity. 

We will not dwell on the difficulties attending the transporta- 
tion of a large company by a few carriages, though the delay 
and disputes thereby occasioned were of course more intolerable 
than in the morning, for the parties had no longer the hopes of 
a happy day before them, as a bribe to submit to temporary in- 
convenience. The impatience of many was so great, that, 
though the evening was raw, they chose to go on foot rather 
than await the dull routine of the returning carriages ; and as 
they retired, they agreed, with one consent, to throw the blame 
of whatever inconvenience they might. sustain on their host 
and hostess, who had invited so large a party before getting a 
shorter and better road made between the Well and Shaws 
Castle. 

“It would have been so easy to repair the path by the Buck- 
stane !” 

And this was all the thanks which Mr. Mowbray received 
for an entertainment which had cost him’ so much trouble and 
expense, and had been looked forward to by the good society at 
the Well with such impatient expectation. 

“Tt was an unco pleasant show,” said the good-natured Mrs. 
Blower, “only it was a pity it was sae tediousome; and there. 
was surely an awfu’ waste of gauze and muslin.” 

But so well had Dr. Quackleben improved his numerous 
opportunities, that the good lady was much reconciled to affairs 
in general, by the prospect of coughs, rheumatisms, and other 
“maladies acquired upon the occasion, which were likely to afford 
that learned gentleman, in whose prosperity she much interested 
herself, a very profitable harvest. 

Mowbray, somewhat addicted to the service of Bacchus, did 
not find himself freed, by the secession of so large a proportion 
of the company, from the service of the jolly god, although, upon 
the present occasion, he could well have dispensed with his 
orgies, Neither the song, nor the pun, nor the jest, had any 
power to kindle his heavy spirit, mortified as he was by the 


228 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


event of his party being so different from the brilliant consum-. 
mation which he had anticipated. The guests, stanch boon com- 
panions, suffered not, however, their party to flag for want of 
the landlord’s participation, but continued to drink bottle after 
bottle, with as little regard for Mr. Mowbray’s grave looks, as 
if they had been carousing at the Mowbray Arms, instead of the 
Mowbray mansion-house. Midnight at length released: him, 
when, with an unsteady step, he sought his own apartment, 
cursing himself and his companions, consigning his own person 
with all despatch to his bed, and bequeathing those of the com- 
pany to as many mosses and quagmires as could be found be- 
twixt Shaws Castle and St. Ronan’s Well. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. 
THE PROPOSAL. 


Oh! you would be a vestal maid, I warrant, 
The bride of heaven—Come—we may shake your purpose}; 
For here I bring in hand a jolly suitor 
Hath ta’en degrees in the seven sciences 
That ladies love best—he is young and noble, 
Handsome and valiant, gay, and rich, and liberal. 
THE Nun. 


THE morning after a debauch is usually one of reflection, 
even to the most customary boon companion; and, in the re- 
trospect of the preceding day, the young Laird of St Ronan’s 
saw nothing very consolatory, unless that the excess was not, 
in the present case, of his own seeking, but had arisen out of 
the necessary duties of a landlord, or what were considered as 
such by his companions. 

But it was not so much his dizzy recollections of the late 
carouse which haunted him on awakening, as. the inexplicability 
which, seemed to shroud the purposes and conduct of his new 
ally the Earl of Etherington. 

That young nobleman had seen Miss Mowbray, had declared 
his high sstisfaction, had warmly and voluntarily renewed the 
proposal which he had made ere she was yet known to him— 
and yet, far from.seeking an opportunity to be introduced to 
her, he had even left the party abruptly, in order to avoid the 
necessary intercourse which must there have taken place between 
them; His lordship’s flirtation with Lady Binks had not escaped 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 229 


the attention of the sagacious Mowbray—her ladyship also had 
been ina hurry to leave Shaws Castle ; and Mowbray promised 
to himself to discover the nature of this connection through Mrs. 
Gingham, her ladyship’s attendant, or otherwise ; vowing deeply, 
at the same time, that no peer in the realm should make an 
affectation of addressing Miss Mowbray a cloak for another and 
more secret intrigue. But his doubts on this subject were in 
great measure removed by the arrival of one of Lord Ethering- 
ton’s grooms with the following letter :— 


“My DEAR Mowpray, 

“You would naturally be surprised at my escape from the 
table yesterday before you returned to it, or your Jovely sister 
had graced it with her presence. J must confess my folly; and 
I may do so the more boldly, for, as the footing on which I first 
opened this treaty was not a very romantic one, you will scarce 
suspect me of wishing to render it such. But I did in reality 
feel, during the whole of yesterday, a reluctance which I cannot 
express, to be presented to the lady on whose favor the happi- 
ness of my future life is to depend, upon such a public occasion, 
and in the presence of so promiscuous a company. I had my 
mask, indeed, to wear while in the promenade, but, of course, 
that was to be laid aside at table, and, consequently, I. must 
_ have gone through the ceremony of introduction ; a most inter- 

esting moment, which I was desirous to defer till a fitter season. 
I trust you will permit me to call upon you at Shaws Castle - 
this morning, in the hope—the anxious hope—of béing allowed 
to pay my duty to Miss Mowbray, and apologize for not waiting 
upon her yesterday. I expect your answer with the utmost im- 
patience, being always yours, etc. etc. etc. 
i ‘¢ ETHERINGTON,”’ 

“This,” said St. Ronan’s to himself, as he folded up the 
letter deliberately, after having twice read it over, ‘‘seems: all 
fair and above-board ; I could not wish anything more explicit ; 
and moreover, it puts into black and white, as old Mick would 
say, what only rested before on our private conversation. An 
especial cure for the headache, such a billet as this in a 
morning.” 

So saying he sat him down and wrote an answer, expressing 
the pleasure he should have in seeing his lordship as soon as 
he thought proper. He watched even the departure of the 
groom, and beheld him gallop off, with the speed of one who 
knows that his quick return was expected by an impatient 
taster, | 


230 ST, RONAN’S WELL, 


Mowbray remained for a few minutes by himself, andre: 
flected with delight upon the probable consequences of this 
match ;—the advancement of his sister—and, above all, the vari- 
ous advantages which must necessarily accrue to himself, by so 
close an alliance with one whom he had good reason to think 
deep zz the secret, and capable of rendering him the most material 
assistance in his speculations on the turf, and in the sporting 
world. He then sent a servant to let Miss Mowbray know that 
he intended to breakfast with her. 

‘“¢T suppose, John,” said Clara, as her brother entered the 
apartment, “you are glad of a weaker cup this morning than 
those you were drinking last night—you were carousing till 
after the first cock.”’ 

“Ves,” said. Mowbray, ‘‘ that sandbed, old MacTurk, upon 
whom whole hogsheads make no impression, did make a bad 
boy of me—but the day is over, and they will scarce catch me 
in such another scrape.—What did you think of the masks?” 

‘“‘ Supported as well,” said Clara, ‘“‘as such folk support the 
disguise of gentlemen and ladies during life ; and that is, with 
_agreat deal of bustle, and very little propriety.” 

“‘T saw only one good mask there, and that wasa Spaniard,’ 
said her brother. | 

“Oh, I saw him too,” answered Clara; ‘but he wore his 
visor on... An old Indian merchant, or some such thing, seemed 
to me a better character—the Spaniard did nothing but stalk 
about and twangle his guitar, for the amusement of my Lady 
Binks, as I think.” 

‘He is a very clever fellow, though, that same Spaniard,” 
rejoined: Mowbray—*“ Can you guess who he is?” 

“No, indeed; nor shall I take the trouble of trying. To: 
set to guessing about it were as bad as seeing the whole 
mummery over again.’ 

“Well, replied her brother, ‘“ you will allow one thing at 
least— Bottom was well acted—you cannot deny that.” 

$f Yes, ” replied Clara, “that worthy really deserved to wear 
his ass’s head to the end of the chapter—but what of him ?” 

‘Only conceive that he should be the very same person yeh 
that handsome Spaniard,” replied Mowbray. 

“Then there is one fool fewer than I thought there was.” 
replied Clara with the greatest indifference, 

Her brother bit his lip. 

“ Clara,” he said, “ I believe you are an excellent good girl, 
and clever to boot, but pray do not set up for wit and oddity; 
there is nothing in life so intolerable as pretending to think 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 231 


differently from other people.—That gentleman was the Earl of 
Etherington.” 

This annunciation, though made in what was meant to be 
an imposing tone, had no impression on Clara. 

“T hope he plays the peer better than the Hidalgo,” she 
replied, carelessly. 

“Yes,” answered Mowbray, “he is one of the handsomest 
men of the time, and decidedly fashionable—you will like him 
much when you see him in private.” 

“Tt is of little consequence whether I do or no,” answered 
Clara. 

“You mistake the matter,” said Mowbray gravely; “ it may 
be of considerable consequence.” 

“Indeed!” said Clara, with a smile; “ I must suppose my- 
self, then, too important a person not to make my approbation 
necessary to one of your first-rates. He cannot pretend to pass 
muster at St. Ronan’s without it.—Well, I will depute my 
authority to Lady Binks, and she shall pass your new recruits 
instead of me.” 

“This is all nonsense, Clara,” said Mowbray. ‘“‘ Lord Ether- 


ington calls here this very morning, and wishes to be made 


known to you. I expect you will receive him as a particular 
friend cf mine.” 

“With all my heart—so you will engage, after this visit, 
to keep him down with your other particular friends at the 
Well.—You know it is a bargain that you bring neither buck 
nor pointer into my parlor—the one worries my cat, and the 
other my temper.” 

“You mistake me entirely, Clara—this is a very different 
visitor from any I have ever introduced to you. I expect to 
see him often here, and I hope you and he will be better friends 
than you think of. I have more reasons for wishing this than 
I have now time to tell you.” 

Clara remained silent for an instant, then looked at her 
brother with an anxious and scrutinizing glance, as if she 
wished to penetrate into his inmost purpose. 

“Tf I thought ’’—she said, after a minute’s consideration, 
and with an altered and disturbed tone; “ but no—lI will not 
think that Heaven intends me such a blow—least of all; that 
it should come from your hands.” She walked hastily to the 
window, and threw it open—then shut it again, and returned 
to her seat, saying, with a constrained smile, “ May Heaven 
forgive you, brother, but you frightened me heartily.” 

“T do not mean to do so, Clara,” said Mowbray, who saw 


the necessity of soothing her; “ I only alluded in joke to those 


232 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


chances that are never out of other girls’ heads, though you 
never seem to calculate on them.” 

“JT wish you, my dear John,” said Clara struggling again to 
regain entire composure, “I wish yow would profit by my 
example, and give up the science of chance also—it will not 


avail you.” 
“ How d’ye know that ?—I’ll show you the contrary, you 
silly wench,” answered Mowbray—‘ Here is a banker’s bill, 


payable to your own order, for the cash you lent me, and some- 
thing over—don’t let old Mick have the fingering, but let Bind- 
loose manage it for you—he is the honester man between two 
d—d knaves.” 

‘Will not you, brother, send it to the man Bindloose your- 
seltceed 

‘““No,—no,” replied Mowbray—‘ he might confuse it with 
some of my transactions, and so you forfeit your stake.” 

‘Well, I am glad you are able to pay me, for I want to buy 
Campbell’s new work.” 

“IT wish you joy of your purchase—but don’t scratch me 
for not caring about it—I know as little of books as you of the 
long odds. And come now, be serious, and tell me if you will 
be a good girl—lay aside your whims, and receive this English 
young nobleman like a lady as you are? ”’ 

“That were easy,” said Clara—‘‘ but—but—Pray, ask no 
more of me than just to see him.—Say to him at once, I ama 
poor creature in body, in mind, in spirits, in temper, in under- 
standing—above all, say that I can receive him only once.” 

“‘T shall say no such thing,” said Mowbray, bluntly; “‘it is 
good to be plain with you at once.—I thought of putting off 
this discussion—but since it must come, the sooner it is over 
the better.—-You are to understand, Clara Mowbray, that Lord 
Etherington has a particular view in this visit, and that his view 
has my full sanction and approbation.” 

“T thought so,” said Clara, in the same altered tone of 
voice in which she had before spoken; “my mind foreboded 
this last of misfortunes !—But, Mowbray, you have no child 
before you—{[ neither will nor can see this nobleman.” 

“How!” exclaimed Mowbray, fiercely; ‘do you dare re- 
turn me so peremptory an answer ?——Think better of it, for if 
we differ, you will find you have the worst of the game.” 

“Rely upon it,” she continued, with more vehemence, “I 
will see him nor no man upon the footing you mention—my 
resolution is taken, and threats and. entreaties will prove 
equally unavailing.” 

“Upon my word, madam,” said Mowbray, “ you have, for a 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 233 


modest and retired young lady, plucked up a goodly spirit of 
your own !—But you shall find mine equals it. If you do not 
agree to see my friend Lord Etherington, ay, and to receive 
him with the politeness due to the consideration I entertain for 
him, by Heaven ! Clara, I will no longer regard you as my father’s 
daughter.—Think what you are giving up—the affection and 
protection of a brother—and for what ?—merely for an idle 
point of etiquette.-—You cannot, I suppose, even in the workings 
of your romantic brain, imagine that the days of Clarissa Har- 
lowe and Harriet Byron are come back again, when women 
were married by main force ? and it is monstrous vanity in you 
to suppose that Lord Etherington, since he has honored you 
with any thoughts at all, will not be satisfied with a proper and 
civil refusal—You are no such prize, methinks, that the days 
of romance are to come back for you.” 

“ T care not what days they are,” said Clara—‘“I tell you I 
will not see Lord Etherington, or any one else, upon such pre- 
liminaries as you have stated—I cannot—I will not—and I 
ought not.—Had you meant me to receive him, which can be a 
matter of no consequence whatever, you should have left him 
on the footing of an ordinary visitor—as it is, I will not see 
him.” 

“You shaiZ/ see and hear him both,” said Mowbray; “ you 
shall find me as obstinate as you are—as willing to forget I am 
a brother, as you to forget that you have one.” 

“Tt is time, then,” replied Clara, “that this house, once our 
father’s, should no longer hold us both. I can provide for my- 
self and may God bless you!” 

“You take it coolly, madam,” said her brother, walking 
through the apartment with much anxiety both of look and 
gesture. 

““T do,” she answered ; “for it is what I have often fore- 
seen—Yes, brother, I have often foreseen that you would make 
your sister the subject of your plots and schemes, so soon as 
other stakes failed you. That hour is come, and I am, as you 
see, prepared to meet it.” 

“And where may you propose to retire to?’ said Mowbray. 
“T think that I, your only relation and natural guardian, have 
a right to know that—my honor and that of my family is 
concerned.” 

“Your honor!” she retorted, with a keen glance at him; 
“your interest, I suppose you mean, is somehow connected 
with the place of my abode.—But keep yourself patient—the 
den of the rock, the linn of the brook, should be my choice, 
rather than a palace without my freedom,” 


; 


234 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“You are mistaken, however,” said Mowbray, sternly, “if 
you hope to enjoy more freedom than I think you capable of 
making a good use of. The law authorizes, and reason, and 
even affection, require that you should be put under restraint 
for your own safety, and that of your character. You roamed 
the woods a little too much in my father’s time, if all stories be 
true.” 

“JT did—I did indeed, Mowbray,” said Clara, weeping; 
“God pity me and forgive you for upbraiding me with my 
state of mind—I know I cannot sometimes trust my own judg- 
ment; but is it for you to remind me of this?” 

Mowbray was at once softened and embarrassed. 

“What folly is this?” he said; “‘ you say the most cutting 
things to me—are ready to fly from my house—and when I am 
provoked to make an angry answer, you burst into tears!” 

“¢ Say you did not mean what you said, my dearest brother !” 
exclaimed Clara; ‘Oh say you did not mean it !—Do not take 
my liberty from me—it is all I have left, and, God knows, it is 
a poor comfort in the sorrows I undergo. . I will put a fair face 
on everything—wil] go down to the Well—will wear what you 
please, and say what you please—but oh! leave me the liberty 
of my solitude here—let me weep alone in the house of my 
father—and do not force a broken-hearted sister to lay her 

death at your door.—My span must be a brief one, but let not 

your hand shake the sand-glass !—Disturb me not—let me pass 
quietly—I do not ask this so much for my sake as for your 
own. I would have you think of me, sometimes, Mowbray, 
after I am gone, and without the bitter reflections which the 
recollection of harsh usage will assuredly bring with it. Pity 
me, were it but for your own sake.—I have deserved nothing 
but compassion at your hand—There are but two of us on 
earth, why should we make each other miserable?” 

She accompanied these entreaties with a flood of tears, and 
the most heart-bursting sobs. Mowbray knew not what to de- 
termine. On the one hand he was bound by his promise to 
the Earl; on the other, his sister was in no condition to re- 
ceive such a visitor; nay, it was most probable, that if he 
-adopted the strong measure of compelling her to receive him, 
‘her behavior would probably be such as totally to break off the 
projected match, on the success of which he had founded so 
many castles in the air. In this dilemma, he had again re- 

' course to argument. 
“Clara,” he said, “I am, as I have repeatedly said, your 
only relation and guardian—if there be any real.reason why 
you ought not to receive, and, at least, make a civil reply to 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 238° 


such a negotiation as the Earl of Etherington has thought fit 
to open, surely I ought to be intrusted with it. You enjoyed 
far too much of that liberty which you seem to prize so highly 
during my father’s lifetime—in the last years of it at least— 
have you formed any foolish attachment during that time, 
which now prevents you from receiving such a visit as Lord 
Etherington has threatened?” 

‘Threatened !—the expression is well chosen,” said Miss 
Mowbray; “and nothing can be more dreadful than sucha 
threat, excepting its accomplishment.” 

“‘T am glad your spirits are reviving,” replied her brother ; 
“but that is no answer to my question.” 

‘Ts it necessary,” said Clara, ‘‘that one must have actually 
some engagement or entanglement, to make them unwilling to 
be given in marriage, or even to be pestered upon such a sub- 
ject >—Many young men declare they intend to die bachelors, 
why may not I be permitted to commence old maid at three- 
and-twenty ?—Let me do so, like a kind brother, and there 
were never nephews and nieces so petted and so scolded, so 
nursed and so cuffed by a maiden aunt, as your children, when 
you have them, shall be by aunt Clara.” 

* And why not say ali this to Lord Etherington?” said 
Mowbray ; ‘“ wait until he propose such a terrible bugbear as 
matrimony, before you refuse to receive him. Who knows, the 
whim that he hinted at may have passed away—he was, as you 
say, flirting with Lady Binks, and her ladyship has a good deal 
of address, as well as beauty.” 

“ Heaven improve both (in an honest way), if she will ‘but 
keep his lordship to herself!” said Clara. 

“Well, then,” continued her brother, “ things standing thus, 
I do not think you will have much trouble with his lordsaip— 
no more, perhaps, than just to give him a civil denial. After 
having spoken on such a subject to a man of my condition, he 
cannot well break off without you give him an apology.” 

“ Tf that is. aJl,” said Clara, ‘‘ he shall, as soon as he gives 
me an opportunity, receive such an answer as will leave him at 
liberty to woo any one whatsoever of Eve’s daughters, except- 
ing Clara Mowbray. Methinks I am soeager to set the captive 
free, that I now. wish as much for his lordship’s appearance as 
I feared it-a little while since.” 

‘‘ Nay, nay, but let us go fair and softly,” said her brother. 

** You are not to refuse him before he asks the question.” 

“ Certainly,” said Clara ; ‘‘ but I well know how to manage 
that—he shall neyer ask the question at all, I will restore 


236 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


Lady Binks’s admirer, without accepting so much as a civility 
in ransom.” 

‘“‘ Worse and worse, Clara,’”’ answered Mowbray ; “‘ you are 
to remember he is my friend and guest, and he must not be 
affronted in my house. Leave things to themselves.—Besides, 
consider an instant, Clara—had you not better take a little 
time for reflection in this case ? The offer is a splendid one— 
title—fortune—and, what is more, a fortune which you will be 
well entitled to share largely in.” 

‘This is beyond our implied treaty,” said Clara. “ I have 
yielded more than ever I thought I should have done, when I 
agreed that this Earl should be introduced to me on the foot- 
ing of acommon visitor ; and now you talk favorably of his 
pretensions. ‘This is an encroachment, Mowbray, and now I 
shall relapse into my obstinacy, and refuse to see him at all.” 

** Do as you will,” replied Mowbray, sensible that it was 
only by working on her affections that he had any chance of 
carrying a point against her inclination,— Do as you will, my 
dear Clara ; but for Heaven’s sake, wipe your eyes.” 

‘‘ And behave myself,” said she, trying to smile as she obeyed 
him,—‘ behave myself, you would say, like folks of this world ; 
but the quotation is lost on you, who never read either Prior or 
Shakespeare,” 

“TI thank Heaven for that,” said Mowbray. “ Ihave enough 
to burden my brain, without carrying such a lumber of rhymes 
in it as you and Lady Pen do.—Come, that is right ; go to the 
mirror, and make yourself decent.” 

A woman must be much borne down indeed by pain and 
suffering, when she loses all respect for her external appearance. 
The madwoman in Bedlam wears her garland of straw with a 
certain air of pretension ; and we have seen a widow whom we 
knew to be most sincerely affected by a recent deprivation, 
whose weeds, nevertheless, were arranged with a dolorous degree 
of grace, which amounted almost to coquetry. Clara Mowbray 
had also, negligent as she seemed to be of appearances, her own — 
art of the toilet, although of the most rapid and most simple 
character. She took off her little riding-hat, and, unbinding a 
lace of Indian gold which retained her locks, shook them in 
dark and glossy profusion over her very handsome form, which 
they overshadowed down to her slender waist ; and while her 
brother stood looking on her with a mixture of pride, affection, 
and compassion, she arranged them with a large comb, and 
without the assistance of any femme d’atours, wove them, in the 
course of a few minutes, into such a natural head-dress as we 
see on the statues of the Grecian nymphs, 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 237 


“ Now let me but find my best muff,” she said, “come prince 
and peer, I shall be ready to receive them.” 

** Pshaw ! your muff—who has heard of such a thing these 
twenty years? Muffs were out of fashion before you were 
born.” 

“ No matter, John,” replied his sister ; ‘“ when a woman 
wears a muff, especially a determined old maid like myself, it 
is a sign she has no intentions to scratch ; and therefore the 
muff serves all the purposes of a white flag, and prevents the 
necessity of drawing on a glove, so prudentially recommended 
by the motto of our cousins, the M‘Intoshes.”’ * 

“ Be it as you will, then,” said Mowbray ; “ for other than 
you do will it, you will not suffer it to be.—But how is this ? 
another billet ?—We are in request this morning.” 

“Now, Heaven send his lordship may have judiciously con- 
sidered all the risks which he is sure to encounter on this 
charmed ground, and resolved to leave his adventure unat- 
tempted,” said Miss Mowbray. 

Her brother glanced a look of displeasure at her as he broke 
the seal of the letter, which was addressed to him with the 
words, ‘“ Haste and secrecy,” written on the envelope. The 
contents, which greatly surprised him, we remit to the com- 
mencement of the next chapter. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. 


PRIVATE INFORMATION. 


Ope this letter, 
I can produce a champion that will prove 
What is avouched there. 


KING LEAR. 


Tue billet which Mowbray received, and read in his sister’s 
presence, contained these words :— 


PPLE, 

‘‘CLARA Mowpsray has few friends—none, perhaps, except- 
ing yourself, in right of blood, and the writer of this letter, by 
right of the fondest, truest, and most disinterested attachment 
that ever man bore to woman. I am thus explicit with you, 


* The well-known crest of this ancient race is a cat rampant, witha 
motto bearing the caution—-“‘ Touch not the cat, but (¢.¢., de out, or with 
out) the glove.” 


238 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


because, though it is unlikely that I should ever again ‘see or 
speak to your sister, I am desirous that you should be clearly 
acquainted with the cause of that interest, which 1 must always, 
even to my dying breath, take in her affairs. 

‘“The person, calling himself Lord Etherington, is, I am 
aware, in the neighborhood of Shaws Castle, with the inten- 
tion of paying his addresses to Miss Mowbray ; and it is easy 
for me to foresee, arguing according to the ordinary views of 
mankind, that he may place his proposals in such a light as 
may make them seem highly desirable. But ere you give this 
person the encouragement which his offers may seem to deserve, 
please to inquire whether his fortune is certain, or his rank 
indisputable ; and be not satisfied with light evidence on either 
point. A man may be in possession of an estate and title, to 
which he has no better right than his own rapacity and forward- 
ness of assumption; and supposing Mr. Mowbray jealous, as 
he must be, of the honor of his, family, the alliance. of sucha 
one cannot but bring disgrace. ‘This comes from one who will 
make good what he has written.” 


On the first perusal of a billet so extraordinary, Mowbray 
was inclined to set it down to the malice of some of the people 
at the Well, anonymous letters being no uncommon resource 
of the small wits who frequent such places of general resort, 
as a species of deception safely and easily executed, and well 
calculated to produce much mischief and confusion. But upon 
closer consideration, he was shaken in his opinion, and, starting 
suddenly from the reverie into which he had fallen, asked for 
the messenger who had brought the letter. ‘‘ He was in the 
hall,” the servant thought, and Mowbray ran to the hall. No 
—the messenger was not there, but Mowbray might see his 
back as he walked up the avenue.—He hallo’d—no answer was 
returned—he ran after the fellow, whose appearance was that 
of acountryman. The man quickened his pace as he saw him- 
self pursued, and when he got out of the avenue, threw himself 
into one of the numerous bypaths which wanderers, who strayed 
in quest of nuts, or for the sake of exercise, had made in 
various directions through the extensive copse which surrounded 
the Castle, and were doubtless the reason of its acquiring the 
name of Shaws, which signifies, in the Scottish dialect, a wood 
of this description. . 

Irritated by the man’s obvious desire to avoid him, and 
naturally obstinate in all his resolutions, Mowbray pursued for 
a considerable way, until he fairly lost breath; and the flier 
having been long out of sight, he recollected at length that his 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 239 


engagement with the Earl of Etherington required his attend- 
ance at the Castle. 

The young lord, indeed, had arrived at Shaws Castle, so few 
minutes after Mowbray’s departure, that it was wonderful they 
had not met in the avenue. The servant to whom he applied, 
conceiving that his master must return instantly, as he had gone 
out without his hat, ushered the Earl, without further ceremony, 
into the breakfast-room, where Clara was seated upon one of 
window-seats, so busily employed with a book, or perhaps with 
her own thoughts while she held a book in her hands, that she 
scarce raised her head, until Lord Etherington, advancing, pro- 
nounced the words, ‘‘ Miss Mowbray.” A start, and a loud 
scream, announced her deadly alarm. and these were repeated 
as he made one pace nearer, and in a firmer accent said, 
“¢ Clara.” 

“No nearer—no nearer,” she exclaimed, “if you would have 
me look upon you and live!” Lord Etherington remained 
standing, as if uncertain whether to advance or retreat, while 
with incredible rapidity she poured out her hurried entreaties 
that he would begone, sometimes addressing him as a real per- 
sonage, sometimes, and more frequently, as a delusive phantom, 
the offspring of her own excited imagination. “I knew it,” 
she muttered, “I knew what would happen, if my thoughts 
were forced into that fearful channel.—Speak to me, brother ! 
speak to me while I have reason left, and tell me that what 
stands before me is but an empty shadow! But it is no” 
shadow—it remains before me in all the lineaments of mortal 
substance !” 

“Clara,” said the Earl, with a firm, yet softened voice, 
“collect and compose yourself. I am, indeed, no shadow—lI 
ama much-injured man, come to demand rights which have 
been unjustly withheld from me. I am now armed with power 
as well as justice, and my claims shall be heard.” 

“ Never—never !” replied Clara Mowbray ; “‘ since extremity 
is my portion, let extremity give me courage.—You have no 
rights—none—I know you not, and I defy you.” 

“ Defy me not, Clara Mowbray,” answered the Earl, in a tone 
and with a manner—how different from those which delighted 
society ! for now he was solemn, tragic, and almost stern, like 
the judge when he passes sentence upon a criminal. “ Defy 
me not,” he repeated. “I am your fate, and it rests with you 
to make me a kind or severe one.” 

“Dare you speak thus?” said Clara, her eyes flashing with 
anger, while her lips grew white, and quivered for fear—* Dare 
you speak thus, and remember that the same heaven is above 


240 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


our heads, to which you so solemnly vowed you would never see 
me more without my own consent?” 

“That vow was conditional—Francis Tyrrel, as he calls 
himself, swore the same—hath 4e not seen you?” He fixed a 
piercing look onher; ‘‘ He has—you dare not disown it !—And 
shall an oath, which to him is buta cobmais be to me a shackle 
of iron?”’ 

“ Alas! it was but for a moment,” said Miss Mowbray, 
sinking in courage, and drooping her head as she spoke. 

“Were it but the twentieth part of an instant—the least 
conceivable space of subdivided time—still, you ad meet—he 
saw you—you spoke to him. And me also you must see—me 
also you must hear! Or I will first claim you for my own in 
the face of the world; and, having vindicated my rights, I will 
seek out and extinguish the wretched rival who has dared to 
interfere with them.” 

“Can you speak thus?” said Clara—‘‘can you so burst 
through the ties of nature ?—Have you a heart?” 

“T have; and it shall be moulded like wax to your slightest 
wishes, if you agree to do me justice; but not granite, nor 
aught else that nature has of hardest, will be more inflexible if 
you continue a useless opposition !—Clara Mowbray, I am your 
Fate.’ 

‘“* Not so, proud man,” said Clara, rising; ‘ God gave not 
one potsherd the power to break another, save by his divine 
-permission—my fate is in the will of Him, without whose will 
even a sparrow falls not to the ground.—Begone—I am strong 
in faith of heavenly protection.” 

‘‘ Do you speak thus in sincerity?”’ said the Earl of Ether- 
ington; “consider first what is the prospect before you. I 
stand here in no doubtful or ambiguous character—lI offer not 
the mere name of a husband—propose to you not an humble lot 
of obscurity and hardship, with fears for the past, and doubts 
for the future; yet there was a time when to a suit like this you 
could listen favorably.—I stand high among the nobles of the 
country, and offer you, as my bride, your share in my honors, 
and in the wealth which becomes them, Your brother is my 
friend and favors my suit. I will raise from the ground, and 
once more render illustrious, your ancient house—your motions 
shall be regulated by your wishes, even by your caprices—I 
will even carry my self-denial so far, that you shall, should you 
insist On so severe a measure, have your own residence, your 
own establishment, and without intrusion on my part, until the 
most devoted love, the most unceasing attentions, shall make 
way on your inflexible disposition,—All this I. will consent to 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 241 


for the future—all that is past shall be concealed from the 
public—But mine, Clara Mowbray, you must be.” 

“* Never—never!” she said, with increasing vehemence. 
‘IT can but repeat a negative, but it shall have all the force of 
an oath.—Your rank is nothing to me—your fortune I scorn— 
my brother has no right, by the law of Scotland, or of nature, 
to compel my inclinations.—I detest your treachery, and I 
scorn the advantage you propose to attain by it——Should the 
law give you my hand, it would but award you that of a corpse.” 

“Alas! Clara,” said the Earl, “you do but flutter in the 
net; but I will urge you no further now—there is another en- 
counter before me.’ 

He was turning away, when Clara, springing forward, caught 
him by the arm, and repeated, in a low and impressive voice, 
the commandment,—‘ Thou shalt do no murder!” 

“Fear not any violence,” he said, softening his voice, and 
attempting to take her hand, “but what may flow from your 
own severity.—Francis is safe from me, unless you are altogether 
unreasonable.—Allow me but what you cannot deny to any friend 
of your brother, the power of seeing you at times—suspend at 
least the impetuosity of your dislike to me, and I will on my 
part modify the current of my just and otherwise uncontrolable 
resentment.” 

Clara, extricating herself, and retreating from him, only 
replied, “‘ There is a Heaven above us, and THERE shall be 
judged our actions toward each other! You abuse a power 
most treacherously obtained—you break a heart that never did 
you wrong—you seek an alliance with a wretch who only wishes 
to be wedded to her grave.—If my brother brings you hither, I 
cannot help it--and if your coming prevents bloody and unnatural 
violence, it is so far well—But by my consent you come zo¢ ; 
and were the choice mine, I would rather be struck with life- 
long blindness, than that my eyes should again open on your 
person—rather that my ears were stuffed with the earth of the 
grave, than that they should again hear your voice!” 

The Earl of Etherington smiled proudly, and replied, “‘ Even 
this, madam, I can hear without resentment. Anxious and 
careful as you are to deprive your compliance of every grace, 
and of every kindness, I receive the permission to wait on you, 
as I interpret your words.” 

‘Do not so interpret them,” she replied ; “I do but submit 
to your presence as an unavoidable evil. Heaven be my 
witness, that, were it not to prevent greater and more desperate 
evil, I would not even so far acquiesce.” 

‘Let acquiescence, then, be the word,” he said; “and so 


. 


242 ST. RONAN’ S WELL. 


thankful will I be, even for your acquiescence, Miss Mowbray, 
that all shall remain private, which I conceive you do not wish 
to be disclosed; and, unless absolutely compelled to it in self- 
defence, you may rely, no violence will be resorted to by me in 
any quarter.—lI relieve you from my presence.” 

So saying, he withdrew from the apartment. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH. 
EXPLANATORY 


——By your leave, gentle wax. 
SHAKESPEARE, 


In the hall of Shaws Castle the Earl of Etherington met Mow- 
bray, returned from his fruitless chase after the bearer of the 
anonymous epistle before recited ; and who had but just learned, 
on his return, that the Earl of Etherington was with: his sister. 
There was a degree of mutual confusion when they met; for 
Mowbray had the contents of the anonymous letter fresh in his 
mind, and Lord Etherington, notwithstanding all the coolness 
which. he endeavored to maintain, had not gone through the 
scene with Clara without discomposure. Mowbray asked the 
Karl whether he had seen his sister, and invited him, at the 
same time, to return to the parlor; and his lordship replied, 
in a tone as indifferent as he could assume, that he had enjoyed 
the honor of the lady’s company for several minutes, and would 
not now intrude further upon Miss Mowbray’s patience. 

‘“’'You have had such a reception as was agreeable, my lord, I 
trust?” said Mowbray. ‘I hope that Clara did the honors of 
the house with propriety during my absence?” 

“Miss Mowbray seemed a little fluttered with my sudden 
appearance,” said the Earl; “‘ the servant showed me in rather 
abruptly; and, circumstanced as we were, there is: always 
awkwardness in a first meeting, where there is no third party 
to act as master of the ceremonies. I suspect, from the lady’s 
looks, that you have not quite kept my secret, my good friend. 
I myself, too, felt a little consciousness in approaching Miss 
Mowbray —but it is over now; andthe ice being fairly broken, 
I hope to have other and more convenient opportunities to 
improve the advantage I have just gained in ee your 
lovely sister’s personal acquaintance,” 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 243 


** So be it,” said Mowbray; “but, as you declare for leaving 
the Castle just now, I must first speak a single word with your 
lordship, for which this place is not altogether convenient.” 

** T can have no objections, my dear Jack,” said Etherington, 
following him with a thrill of conscious feeling, somewhat 
perhaps like that of the spider when he perceives his deceitful 
web is threatened with injury, and sits balanced in the centre, 
watching’ every point, and uncertain which he may be called 
upon first to defend. Such is one part, and not the slightest 
part, of the penance which never fails to wait on those, who, 
abandoning the “fair play of the world,” endeavor to work out 
their purposes by a process of deception and intrigue. 

“My lord,’ said Mowbray, when they had entered a little 
apartment, in which the latter kept his guns, fishing-tackle, and 
other implements of sport, ‘‘ you have played on the square with 
me; nay, more—TI am bound to allow you have given me great 
odds. Iam therefore not entitled to hear any reports to the 
prejudice of your lordship’s character, without instantly com- 
municating them. ‘There is an anonymous letter which I have 
just received. Perhaps your lordship: may know the hand, and 
thus be enabled to detect the writer.” : 

“1 do know the hand,” said the Earl, as he received the note 
from Mowbray ; “‘ and, allow me to say, it is the only one which 
could have dared to frame any calumny to my prejudice. I 
hope, Mr. Mowbray, it is impossible for you to consider this 
infamous charge as anything but a falsehood.” 

“My placing it in your lordship’s hands, without further in- 
quiry, is a sufficient proof that I hold it such, my lord ; at the 
same time that I cannot doubt for a moment that your lordship 
has it in your power to overthrow so frail a calumny by the 
most satisfactory evidence.” 

“Unquestionably I can, Mr. Mowbray,” said the Earl ; “for, 
besides my being in full possession of the estate and title of my 
father, the late Earl of Etherington, I have my father’s contract 
of marriage, my own certificate of baptism, and the evidence of 
the whole country to establish my right. All these shall be 
produced with the least delay possible. You will not think it 
surprising that one does not travel with this sort of documents 
in one’s post-chaise.” 

“Certainly not, my lord,” said Mowbray ; “ it is sufficient 
they are forthcoming when called for. But, may I inquire, my 
lord, who the writer of this letter is,.and whether he has any 
particular spleen to gratify by this very impudent assertion, 
which is so easily capable of being disproved?” — 

“He is,” said Etherington, “ or, at least, has the reputation 


244 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


of being, I am sorry to say, a near—a very near relation of my 
own—in fact, a brother by the father’s side, but illegitimate.— 
My father was fond of him—I loved him also, for he has un- 
commonly fine parts, and is accounted highly accomplished. 
But there is a train of something irregular in his mind,—a vein, 
in short, of madness, which breaks out in the usual manner, 
rendering the poor young man a dupe to vain imaginations of 
his own dignity and grandeur, which is perhaps the most ordi- 
nary effect of insanity, and inspiring the deepest aversion against 
his nearest relatives and against myself in particular. Heisa 
man extremely plausible, both in speech and manners ; so much 
so, that many of my friends think there is more vice than in- 
sanity in the irregularities which he commits ; but I may, I 
hope, be forgiven, if I have formed a milder judgment.of one 
supposed to be my father’s son. Indeed, I cannot help being 
sorry for poor Frank, who might have made a very distinguished 
figure in the world.” 

‘May I ask the gentleman’s name, my lord?” said Mow- 
bray. 

‘‘ My father’s indulgence gave him our family name of Tyrrel, 
with his own Christian name Francis; but his proper name, to 
which alone he has a right, is Martigny.” 

“Francis Tyrrel ! ” exclaimed Mowbray; “* why, that is the 
name of the very person who made some disturbance at the 
Well just before your lordship arrived.—You may have seen an 
advertisement—a sort of placard.” 

‘“¢ T have, Mr. Mowbray,” said the Earl. ‘‘ Spare me on that 
subject, if you please—it has formed a strong reason why I did 
not mention my connection with this unhappy man before ; but 
it is no unusual thing for persons, whose imaginations are 
excited, to rush into causeless quarrels, and then to make dis- 
creditable retreats from them.” 

“* Or,” said Mr. Mowbray, ‘‘ he may have, after all, been 
prevented from reaching the place of rendezvous—it was that 
very day on which your lordship, I think, received your wound ; 
and, if I mistake not, you hit the man from whom you got the 
hurt.” , 

‘“* Mowbray,” said Lord Etherington, lowering his voice, and 
taking him by the arm, “it is true that I did so, and truly 
glad am I to observe, that, whatever might have been the con- 
sequences of such an accident, they cannot have been serious.— 
It struck me afterward, that the man by whom I was. so 
strangely assaulted had some resemblance to the unfortunate 
Tyrrel—but I had not seen him for years.—At any rate, he can- 


¢ 
é 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 245 


not have been much hurt, since he is now able to resume his 
intrigues to the prejudice of my character.” 

* Your lordship views the thing with a firm eye,” said 
Mowbray; “ firmer than I think most people would be able to 
command, who had so narrow a chance of a scrape so uncom- 
fortable.” 

“ Why, I am, in the first place, by no means sure that the 
risk existed,” said the Earl of Etherington; “ for, as I have 
often told you, I had but a very transient glimpse of the ruffian ; 
and, in the second place, I am sure that no permanent bad 
consequences have ensued. Iam too old a fox-hunter to be 
afraid of a leap after it is cleared, as they tell of the fellow who 
fainted in the morning at the sight of the precipice he had 
clambered over when he was drunk on the night before. The 
man who wrote that letter,” touching it with his finger, “ is 
alive, and able to threaten me; andif he did come to any hurt 
from my hand, it was in the act of attempting my life, of which 
I shall carry the mark to my grave.” 

“ Nay, | am far from blaming your lordship,” said Mowbray, 
“for what you did in self-defence, but the circumstance might 
have turned out very unpleasant.—May I ask what you intend 
to do with this unfortunate gentleman, who is in all probability 
in the neighborhood ?” 

‘“‘ ¥ must first discover the place of his retreat,” said Lord 
Etherington, ‘‘ and then consider what is to be done, both for 
his safety, poor fellow, and my own. It is probable, too, that he 
may find sharpers to prey upon what fortune he still possesses, 
which, I assure you, is sufficient to attract a set of folk, who 
may ruin while they humor him.—May I beg that you, too, 
will be on the outlook, and let me know if you ‘hear or see more 
of him?” 

‘1 shall, most certainly, my lord,” answered Mowbray ; : 
“ but the only one of his haunts which I know, is the old 
Cleikum Inn, where he chose to take up his residence. He has 
now left it, but perhaps the old crab-fish of a landlady may 
know something of him.” 

‘ T will not fail to inquire,” said Lord Etherington ; and, 
with these words, he took a kind farewell of Mowbray, mounted 
his horse, and rode up the avenue. 

“A cool fellow,’”’ said Mowbray, as he looked after him, “a 
d—d cool fellow, this brother-in-law of mine, that is to be— 
takes a shot at his father’s son with as little remorse as ata 
black-cock—what would he do with me, were we to quarrel ?— 
Well, I can snuff a candle and strike out the ace of hearts ; and 


246 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


so, should things go wrong, he has no Jack Raw to deal with, 
but Jack Mowbray.” 

Meanwhile the Earl of Etherington hastened home to his 
own apartments at the Hotel; and, not entirely pleased with 
the events of the day, commenced a letter to his correspondent, 
agent, and confidant, Captain Jekyl, which we have fortunately 
the means of presenting to our readers :— 


“ FRIEND HarRY, 

‘“‘ THEY say a falling house is best known by the rats leay- 
ing it—a fallen state, by the desertion of confederates and 
allies—and a fallen man by the desertion of his friends. If this 
be true augury, your last letter may be considered as ominous of 
my breaking down. Methinks, you have gone far enough, and 
shared deep enough with me, to have some confidence in my 
savoir faire—some little faith both in my means and manage- 
ment.—What cross-grained fiend has at once inspired you with 
what I suppose you wish me to call politic doubts and scruples 
of conscience, but which I can only regard as symptoms of fear 
and disaffection? You can have no idea of ‘ duels betwixt 
relations so nearly connected ’—and ‘the affair seems very deli- 
cate and intricate ’—and again, ‘ the matter has never been 
fully explained to you’—and, moreover, ‘ if you are expected to 
take an active part in the business, it must be when you are 
honored with my full and unreserved confidence, otherwise, 
how could you be of the use to me which I might require?’ 
Such are your expressions. 

““ Now, as to scruples of conscience about near relations and 
so forth, all that has blown by without much mischief, and 
certainly is not likely to occur again—besides, did you never 
hear of friends quarreling before? And are they are not to exer- 
cise the usual privileges of gentlemen when they do? More- 
over, how am I to know that this plaguy fellow zs actually 
related to me ?—They say it is a wise child knows its own 
father; and I cannot be expected wise enough to know to a 
certainty my father’s son.—So much for relationship.—Then, 
as to fulland unreserved confidence—why, Harry, this is just 
-as if I were to ask you to look at a watch, and tell what it was 
o’clock and you were to reply, that truly you could not inform 
me, because you had not examined the springs, the counter- 
balances, the wheels, and the whole internal machinery of the 
little timepiece.—But the upshot of the whole is this,—Harry 
Jekyl, who is as sharp a fellow as any other, thinks he has his 
friend Lord Etherington at a deadlock, and that he knows 
already so much of the said noble lord’s history as to oblige 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 247 


his lordship to tell him the whole. And perhaps he not 
unreasonably concludes, that the custody of a whole secret is 
more creditable, and probably more lucrative, than that of a 
half one ; and, in short, he is resolved to make the most of the 
cards in his hand. Another, mine honest Harry, would take 
the trouble to recall to your mind past times and circumstances, 
and conclude with expressing an humble opinion, that if Harry 
Jekyl were asked zow to do any service for the noble lord 
aforesaid, Harry had got his rewardin his pocket aforehand. 
But I do not argue thus, because I would rather be leagued 
with a friend who assists me with a view to future profit, than 
from respect to benefits already received. The first lies like 
the fox’s scent when on his last legs, increasing every moment ; 
the other is a back-scent, growing colder the longer you follow 
it, until at last it becomes impossible to puzzle it out. I will, 
therefore, submit to the circumstances, and tell you the whole 
story, though somewhat tedious, in hopes that I can conclude 
with such a trail as you will open upon breast-high. 

“Thus then it was.—Francis, fifth Earl of Etherington, and 
my much honored father, was what is called'a very eccentric 
man—that is, he was neither a wise man nora fool—had too 
much sense to walk into a well, and yet in some of the furious 
fits which he was visited with, I have seen him quite mad 
enough to throw any one else into it—-Men said there was a 
lurking insanity—but it is an ill bird, etc., and I will say no 
more about it. This shatter-brained peer was, in other respects, 
a handsome accomplished man, with an expression somewhat 
haughty, yet singularly pleasing when he chose it—a man, in 
short, who might push his fortune with the fair sex. 

“Lord Etherington, such as [ have described him, being upon 
his travels in France, formed an attachment of the heart—ay, 
and some have pretended, of the hand also, with a certain 
beautiful orphan, Maria de Martigny. Of this union is said to 
have sprung (for I am determined not to be certain on that 
point) that most incommodious person, Francis Tyrrel, as he 
calls himself, but as I would rather call him, Francis Martigny ; 
the latter suiting my views, as perhaps the former name agrees 
better with his pretensions. Now, I am too good a son to sub- 
scribe to the alleged regularity of the marriage between my 
right honorable and very good lord father, because my said 
right honorable and very good lord did, on his return to 
England, become wedded, in the face of the church, to my very 
affectionate and well-endowed mother, Ann Bulmer of Bulmer 
Hall, from which happy union sprang I, Francis Valentine 
Bulmer Tyrrel, lawful inheritor of my father and mother’s joint 


248 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


estates, as I was the proud possessor of their ancient names, 
But the noble and wealthy pair, though blessed with such a 
pledge of love as myself, lived mighty ill together, and the 
rather, when my right honorable father, sending for this other 
Sosia, this unlucky Francis Tyrrel, senior, from France, insisted 
in the face of propriety, that he should reside in his house, 
and share, in all respects,*in the opportunities of education by 
which the real Sosia, Francis Valentine Bulmer Tyrrel, then 
commonly called Lord Oakendale, hath profited in such an 
uncommon degree. 

“Various were the matrimonial quarrels which arose between 
the honored lord and lady, in consequence of this unseemly 
conjunction of the legitimate and illegitimate ; and to these, 
we, the subjects of the dispute, were sometimes very properly, 
as well as decorously, made the witnesses. On one occasion, 
my right honorable mother, who was a free-spoken lady, found 
the language of her own rank quite inadequate to express the 
strength of her generous feelings, and borrowing from the 
vulgar two emphatic words, applied them to Marie de Martigny, 
and her son, Francis Tyrrel. Never did Earl that ever wore 
coronet fly into a pitch of more uncontrollable rage, than did 
my right honorable father ; and, in the ardor of his reply, he 
adopted my mother’s phraseology, to inform her, that if there 
qwas a whore and bastard connected with his house, it was 
herself and her brat. 

“‘T was even then a sharp little fellow, and was incredibly 
struck with the communication, which, in an hour of uncon- 
trolable irritation, had escaped my right honorable father. 
It is true, he instantly gathered himself up again; and, he 
perhaps recollecting such a word as digamy, and my mother, 
on her side, considering the consequences of such a thing as a 
descent from the Countess of Etherington into Mrs. Bulmer, 
neither wife, maid, nor widow, there was an apparent recon- 
ciliation between them, which lasted for some time. But the 
speech remained deeply imprinted on my remembrance ; the 
more so, that once, when I was exerting over my friend, 
Francis Tyrrel, the authority of a legitimate brother, and Lord 
Oakendale, old Cecil, my father’s confidential valet, was so 
much scandalized, as to intimate a possibility that we might one 
day change conditions. These two accidental communications 
seemed to me a key to certain long lectures, with which my 
father used to regale us boys, but me in particular, upon the 
extreme mutability of human affairs,—the disappointment of 
the best grounded hopes and expectations,—and the necessity 
of being so accomplished in all useful branches of knowledge, 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 249 


as might, in case of accidents, supply any defalcation in our 
rank and fortune ;—as if any art or science could make amends 
for the loss of an Earldom, and twelve thousand a year! All 
this prosing seemed to my anxious mind designed to prepare 
me for some unfortunate change ; and when I was old enough 
to make such private inquiries as lay in my power, I became 
still more persuaded that my right honorable father nourished 
some thoughts of making an honest woman of Marie de Mar- 
tigny, and a legitimate elder brother of Francis, after his death 
at least, if not during his life. I was the more convinced of 
this, when a little affair, which I chanced to have with the 
daughter of my Tu , drew down my father’s wrath upon me 
in great abundance, and occasioned my being banished to 
Scotland, along with my brother, under a very poor allowance, 
without introductions, except to one steady, or call it rusty, old 
Professor, and with the charge that I should not assume the 
title of Lord Oakendale, but content myself with my maternal 
grandfather’s name of Valentine Bulmer, that of Francis Tyrrel 
being pre-occupied. 

“Upon this occasion, notwithstanding the fear which I en- 
tertained of my father’s passionate temper, I did venture to 
say, that since I was to resign my title, I thought I had a right 
to keep my family name, and that my brother might take his 
mother’s. I wish you had seen the look of rage with which my 
father regarded me when I gave him this spirited hint, ‘Thou 
art’—he said, and paused, as if to find out the bitterest epithet 
to supply the blank —‘ thou art thy mother’s child, and her per- 
fect picture,’—(this seemed the severest reproach that occurred 
to him).—‘ Bear her name then, and bear it with patience and 
in secrecy ; or, I here give you my word, you shall never bear 
another the whole days of your life.’ This sealed my mouth 
with a witness; and then, in allusion to my flirtation with the 
daughter of my Tu aforesaid, he enlarged on the folly and 
iniquity of private marriages, warned me that in the country I 
was going to the matrimonial noose often lies hid under flowers, 
and that folks find it twisted round their neck when they least 
expect such a cravat ; assured me, that he had very particular 
views for settling Francis and me in life, and he would forgive 
neither of us who should, by any such rash entanglement, render 
them unavailing. 

“This last minatory admonition was the more tolerable, 
that my rival had his share of it ; and so we were bundled off 
to Scotland, coupled up like two pointers in a dog-cart, and— 
I can speak for one at least—with much the same uncordial 
feeling toward each other. I often, indeed, detected Francis 


250 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


looking at me with a singular expression, as of pity and anxiety, 
and once or twice he seemed disposed to enter on something 
respecting the situation in which we stood toward each other, 
but I felt no desire'to encourage his confidence. Meantime, as 
we were called, by our father’s directions, not brothers, but 
cousins, so we came to bear toward each other the habits of 
companionship, though scarcely of friendship. What. Francis 
thought, I know not ; for my part, I must confess, that I lay by 
on the watch for some opportunity when I might mend: my own 
situation with my father, though at the prejudice of my rival. 
And Fortune, while she seemed to prevent such an opportunity, 
involved us both in one of the strangest and most entangled 
mazes that her capricious divinityship ever wove, and out of 
which I am even now struggling, by sleight or force, to extricate 
myself... I can hardly help wondering, even yet, at the odd con- 
junction, which has produced such an intricacy of complicated 
incidents. 

‘“‘ My father was a great sportsman, and Francis and I had 
both inherited his taste for field-sports, but I in a keener and 
more ecstatic degree. Edinburgh, which is a tolerable residence 
in winter and spring, becomes disagreeable in summer, and in 
autumn is the most melancholy séjour that ever poor mortals 
were condemned to. No public places are open, no inhabitant 
of any consideration remains in the town; those who cannot 
get away, hide themselves in obscure corners, as if ashamed to 
be seen in the streets. The gentry go to their country-houses 
—the citizens to. their sea-bathing quarters—the lawyers to 
their circuits—the writers to visit their country clients—and 
all the world to the moors to shoot grouse. We, who felt the 
indignity of remaining in town during this deserted season, 
obtained, with some difficulty, permission from the Earl to 
betake ourselves to any obscure corner, and shoot grouse, if 
we could get leave to do soon our general character of English 
students at the University of Edinburgh, without quoting any- 
thing more. | 

“The first year of our banishment we went to the neighbor- 
hood of the Highlands; but finding our sport interrupted by 
gamekeepers and their gillies, on the second occasion we estab- 
lished ourselves at this little village of St. Ronan’s where there 
were then no Spa, no fine people, no card-tables, no quizzes, 
excepting the old quiz ofa landlady with whom we lodged. 
We found the place much to our mind; the old landlady had 
interest with some. old fellow, agent of a non-residing noble- 
man, who gave us permission to sport over his moors, of which 
I availed myself keenly, and Francis with more moderation. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 261 


He was, indeed, of a grave musing’ sort of a habit, and often 
preferred solitary walks, in the wild and beautiful scenery with 
which the village is surrounded, to the use of the gun.’ He was. 
attached to fishing, moreover, that dullest of human amuse- 
ments, and this also tended to keep us considerably apart 
This gave me rather pleasure than concern ;~not that I hated 
Francis at that time; nay, not that I greatly disliked his 
society ; but merely because it was unpleasant to be always 
with one, whose fortunes I looked upon as standing in direct 
opposition to my own. I also rather despised the indifference 
about sport, which indeed seemed to grow upon him; but my 
gentleman had better taste than I was aware of. If he sought 
no grouse on the hill, he had flushed a pheasant in the wood. 

“Clara Mowbray, daughter of the Lord of the more picfu- 
resque than wealthy domain of St. Ronan’s, was at that time 
scarce sixteen years old, and as wild and beautiful a woodland 
nymph as the imagination can fancy—simple as a child in all 
that concerned the world and its ways, acute as a needle in 
every point of knowledge which she had found an opportunity 
of becoming acquainted with; fearing harm from no one, and 
with a lively and natural strain of wit, which brought amuse- 
ment and gayety wherever she came. Her motions were under 
no restraint, save that of her own inclination; for her father, 
though a cross, peevish old man, was confined to his chair with 
the gout, and her only companion, a girl somewhat of inferior 
caste, bred: up in the utmost deference to. Miss Mowbray’s 
fancies, served for company indeed in her strolls through the 
wild country on foot and on horseback, but never thought of 
interfering with her will and pleasure. 

“The extreme loneliness of the country (at that time), and 
the simplicity of its inhabitants, seemed to render these excur- 
sions perfectly safe. Francis, happy dog, became the com- 
panion of the damsels on such occasions through the following 
accident.. Miss Mowbray had dressed herself, and her com- 
panion like country wenches, with a view to surprise the family 
of one of their better sort of farmers.’ They had accomplished 
their purpose greatly to their satisfaction, and were hying home 
after sunset, when they were encountered by.a country fellow 
—a sort of Harry Jekyl in his way—who, being equipped with 
.a glass or two of whisky, saw not the nobility of blood through 
her disguise, and accosted the daughter of a hundred sires as 
he would have done aewe-milker. Miss Mowbray remonstrated 
—her companion screamed—up came cousin; Francis with a 
fowling-piece on his shoulder, and soon put the sylvan to flight. 

‘This was the beginning of an acquaintance, which had 


252 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


gone great lengths before I found it out. The fair Clara, it 
seems, found it safer to roam in the woods with an escort than 
alone, and my studious and sentimental relative was almost her 
constant companion. At their age it was likely that some time 
might pass ere they came to understand each other; but full 
confidence and intimacy was established between them ere I 
heard of their amour. 

‘‘And here, Harry, I must pause till next morning, and 
send you the conclusion under a separate cover. The rap 
which I had over the elbow the other day, is still tingling at 
the end of my fingers, and you must not be critical with my 
manuscript.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH. 
LETTER CONTINUED. 


Must I then ravel out 
My weaved-up follies ? 


SHAKESPEARE, 


“*] RESUME my pen, Harry, to mention, without attempting 
to describe my surprise, that Francis, compelled by circum- 
stances, made me the confidant of his love-intrigue. My 
grave cousin in love, and very much in the mind of approach- 
ing the perilous verge of clandestine marriage—he who used 
every now and then, not much to the improvement of our cor- 
dial regard, to lecture me upon filial duty, just upon the point 
of slipping the bridle himself! I could not for my life tell 
whether surprise, or a feeling of mischievous satisfaction, 
was predominant. I tried to talk to him as he used to talk to 
me; but I had not the gift of persuasion, or he the power 
of understanding the words of wisdom. He insisted our situa- 
tion was different—that his unhappy birth, as he termed it, 
freed him at least from dependence on his father’s absolute 
will—that he had, by bequest from some relative of his mother, 
a moderate competence, which Miss Mowbray had consented | 
to share with him; in fine, that he desired not my counsel but 
my assistance. A moment’s consideration convinced me, that 
I should be unkind, not to him only but to myself, unless I 
gave him all the backing I could in this his most dutiful scheme. 
I recollected our right honorable father’s denunciations against 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 253 


Scottish marriages, and secret marriages of all sorts,—de- 
nunciations perhaps not the less vehement that he might feel 
some secret prick of conscience on the subject himself. | I re- 
membered that my grave brother had always been. a favorite, 
and I forgot not—how was it possible I could forget ?—those 
ominous expressions, which intimated a possibility of the hered- 
itary estate and honors being transferred to the elder, instead 
of the younger son. Now, it required no conjurer to foresee, 
that should Francis commit this inexpiable crime of secretly 
allying himself with a Scottish beauty, our sire would lose all 
wish to accomplish such a transference in his favor; and while 
my brother’s merits were altogether obscured by. such an 
unpardonable act of disobedience, my own, no longer over- 
shadowed by prejudice or partiality, would shine forth in all 
their natural brilliancy. These considerations, which flashed on 
me with the rapidity of lightning, induced me to consent to hold 
Frank’s back-hand, during the perilous game he proposed to play. 
I had only to take care that my own share.in the matter should 
not be so prominent as to attract my father’s attention; and 
this I was little afraid of, for his wrath was usually of that 
vehement. and forcible character, which, like lightning, is 
attracted to one single point, there bursting with violence, as 
undivided as it was uncontrolable. 

“TJ soon found the lovers needed my assistance more than I 
could have supposed; for they were absolute novices in any 
sort ‘of intrigue, which to me seemed as easy and: natural as 
lying. Francis’had been detected by some tattling spy in his 
walks with Clara, and the news had been carried to old Mow- 
bray, who was greatly incensed at his daughter, though little 
knowing that her crime was greater than admitting an unknown 
English student to form a personal acquaintance with her. 
He prohibited further intercourse—resolved, in justice-of- 
peace phrase, to rid the country of us; and, prudently sinking 
all mention of his daughter’s delinquency, commenced an ac- 
tion against Francis, under pretext of punishing him as. an 
encroacher upon his game, but in reality to scare him from 
the neighborhood. His person was particularly described to 
all the keepers and satellites about Shaws Castle, and any 
personal intercourse betwixt him and Clara became impossible, 
except under the most desperate risks,» Nay, such was their 
alarm, that Master Francis thought it prudent, for Miss Mow- 
bray’s sake, to withdraw as far as a town called Marchthorn, 
and there to conceal himself, maintaining his intercourse with 
Clara only by letter. | 

“It was then I became the sheet-anchor of the hope of the 


284 ST, RONAN’S WELL. 


lovers; it was then my early dexterity and powers of contriv- 
ance were first put to the test ; and it would be too long to tell 
you in how many shapes, and by how many contrivances, I 
acted as agent, letter-carrier, and go-between, to maintain the 
intercourse of these separated turtles. I have had a good deal 
of trouble in that way on my own account, but never half so 
much as I took on account of this brace of lovers. I scaled 
walls and swam rivers, set blood-hounds, quarter-staves, and 
blunderbusses at defiance ;. and excepting the distant prospect 
of self-interest which I have hinted at, I was neither to have 
honor nor reward for my pains. I will own to you that Clara 
Mowbray was so very beautiful—so absolutely confiding in her 
lover’s friend—and thrown into such close intercourse with me, 
that there were times when I thought that, in conscience, she 
ought not to have scrupled to have contributed a mite to re- 
ward the faithful laborer. But then she looked like purity 
itself; and I was such a novice at that time of day, that I did 
not know how it might have been possible for me to retreat, if 
I had made too bold an advance—and, in short, I thought it 
best to content myself with assisting true love to run smooth, 
in the hope that its course would assure me, in the long-run, an 
Earl’s title, and an Earl’s fortune. 

‘“‘ Nothing was, therefore, ventured on my part which could 
raise suspicion, and, as the confidential friend of the lovers, I 
prepared everything for their secret marriage. . The pastor of 
the parish agreed to perform the ceremony, prevailed upon by 
an argument which I used to him, and which Clara, had she 
guessed it, would have little thanked me for. I led the honest 
man to believe, that, in declining to do this office, he might 
prevent a too successful lover from doing justice to a betrayed 
maiden; and the parson, who, I found, had a spice of romance 
in his disposition, resolved, under such pressing circumstances, 
to do them the kind office of binding them together, although 
the consequence might be a charge of irregularity against 
himself. Old Mowbray was much confined to his room, his 
daughter less watched since Frank had removed from the 
neighborhood—the brother (which, by the by, IL should have 
said before) not then in the country—and it was settled that 
the lovers should meet at the Old Kirk of St. Ronan’s, when 
the twilight became deep, and go off in a chaise for England so 
soon as the ceremony was performed. 

“When all this was arranged save the actual appointment 
of the day, you cannot conceive the happiness and the gratitude, 
of my sage brother. He looked upon himself as approaching 
to the seventh heaven, instead of losing his chance of a good 


ST: RONAN’S WELL. . 255 


fortune, and encumbering himself at nineteen with a wife, and 
all the probabilities of narrow circumstances, and an increasing 
family. Though so much younger myself, I could not help 
wondering at his extreme want of knowledge of the world, and 
feeling ashamed that I had ever allowed him to take the airs 
of a tutor with me; and this conscious superiority supported 
me against the thrill of jealousy which always seized me when 
I thought of his carrying off the beautiful prize, which, without 
my address, he could never have made his own.—But at this 
important crisis, I had a letter from my father, which, by some 
accident, had long lain at our lodgings in Edinburgh—had then 
visited our former quarters in the Highlands—again returned 
to Edinburgh—and at length reached me at Marchthorn ina 
most critical time. 

“Tt was in reply to a letter of mine, in which, among other 
matters, such as good boys send to their papas, descriptions of 
the country, accounts of studies, exercises, and so forth, I had, 
to fill up the sheet to a dutiful length, thrown in something 
about the family at St. Ronan’s, in the neighborhood of which 
I was writing. I had no idea what an effect the name would 
produce on the mind of my right honorable father, but his letter 
sufficiently expressed it. He charged me to cultivate the ac- 
quaintance of Mr. Mowbray as fast and as intimately as pos- 
sible ; and, if need were, to inform him candidly of our real 
character and situation in life. Wisely considering, at the 
same time, that his filial admonition might be neglected if not 
backed by some sufficient motive, his lordship frankly let me 
into the secret of my grand-uncle by the mother’s side, Mr. S. 
Mowbray of Nettlewood’s last will and testament, by which I 
saw, to my astonishment and alarm, that a large and fair estate 
was bequeathed to the eldest son and heir of the Earl of Ether- 
ington, on condition of his forming a matrimonial alliance with 
a lady of the house of Mowbray of St. Ronan’s.—Mercy of 
Heaven! how I stared! Here had I been making every pre- 
paration for wedding Francis to the very girl, whose hand would 
insure to myself wealth and independence !—And even the first 
loss, though great, was not likely to be the last. My father 
spoke of the marriage like a Jand-surveyor, but of the estate of 
Nettlewood like an impassioned lover. He seemed to dote on 
every acre of it, and dwelt on its contiguity to his own domains 
as a circumstance which rendered the union of the estates not 
desirable merely, but constituted an arrangement pointed out 
by the hand of nature. And although he observed, that, on 
account of the youth of the parties, a treaty of marriage could 
not be immediately undertaken, it was yet clear he would ap- 


256 ‘ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


prove at heart of any bold stroke which would abolish the in- 
terval of time that might otherwise intervene, ere Oakendale 
and Nettlewood became one property. 

“‘ Here, then, were shipwrecked my fair hopes. It was clear 
as sunshine, that a private marriage, unpardonable in the 
abstract, would become venial, nay, highly laudable, in my 
father’s eyes, if it united his heir with Clara Mowbray; and if 
he really had, as my fears suggested, the means of establishing 
legitimacy on my brother’s part, nothing was so likely to tempt 
him to use them, as the certainty that, by his doing so, Nettle- 
wood and Oakendale would be united into one. The very 
catastrophe which I had prepared, as sure to exclude my rival 
from his father’s favor, was thus likely, unless it could be pre- 
vented, to become a strong motive and argument for the Earl 
placing his rights above mine. 

“TI shut myself up in my bedroom, locked the door, read 
and again read my father’s letter, and, instead of giving way to 
idle passion (beware of that, Harry, even in the most desperate 
circumstances), 1 considered, with keen investigation, whether 
some remedy could not yet be found.—To break off the match 


for the time would have been easy—a little private information. 


to Mr. Mowbray would have done that with a vengeance—but 
then the treaty might be renewed under my father’s auspices ; 
—at all events, the share which I had taken in the intrigue 
between Clara and my brother, rendered it almost impossible 
for me to become a suitor in my own person.—Amid these per- 
plexities, it suddenly occurred to my adventurous heart and con- 
triving brain—what if I should personate the bridegroom ?— 
This strange thought, you will recollect, occurred to a very 
youthful brain—it was banished—it returned—returned again 
and again—was viewed under every different shape—became 
familiar—was adopted—It was easy to fix the appointment 
with Clara and the clergyman, for I managed the whole corre- 
spondence—the resemblance between Francis and me in stature 
and in proportion—the disguise which we were to assume—the 
darkness of the church—the hurry of the moment—might, I 
trusted, prevent Clara from recognizing me. To the minister 
I had only to say, that, though I had hitherto talked of a 
friend, I myself was the happy man. My first name was 
Francis as well as his; and I had found Clara so gentle, so con- 
fiding, so flatteringly cordial in her intercourse with me, that, 
once within my power, and prevented from receding by shame 
and a thousand contradictory feelings, I had, with the vanity 
of an amoureux de seize ans, the confidence to believe I could 
reconcile the fair lady to the exchange. 


ae 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 2b 


“There certainly never came such a thought into a madcap’s 
brain; and, what is more extraordinary—but that you already 
know—it was so far successful, that the marriage ceremony was 
performed between us in the presence of a servant of mine, her 
accommodating companion, and the priest.—We got into the 
carriage, and were a mile from the church, when my unlucky 
or lucky brother stopped the chaise by force—through what 
means he had obtained knowledge of my little trick, I never 
have been able to learn. Solmeshas been faithful to me in too 
many instances, that I should suspect him in this important 
crisis. I jumped out of the carriage, pitched fraternity to the 
devil, and, betwixt desperation and something very like shame, 
began to cut away with a couteau de chasse, which I had pro- 
vided in case of necessity.—All was in vain—I was hustled 
down under the wheel of the carriage, and, the horses taking 
fright, it went over my body. 

‘Here ends my narrative ; for I neither heard nor saw more 
until I found myself stretched on a sick-bed many miles from 
the scene of action, and Solmes engaged in attending on me. 
In answer to my passionate inquiries, he briefly informed me 
that Master Francis had sent back the young lady to her own 
dwelling, and that she appeared to be extremely ill in conse- 
quence of the alarm she had sustained. My own health, he 
_ assured me, was considered as very precarious, and added, that 
Tyrrel, who was in the same house, was in the utmost pertur- 
bation on my account. ‘The very mention of his name brought 
on a crisis in which I brought up much blood ; and it is singu- 
lar that the physician who attended me—a grave gentleman, 
with a wig—considered that this was of service to me. I know 
it frightened me heartily, and prepared me for a visit from 
Master Frank, which I endured with a tameness he would not 
have experienced, had the usual current of blood flowed in my 
veins. But sickness and the lancet make one very tolerant of 
sermonizing.—At last, in consideration of being relieved from 
his accursed presence, and the sound of his infernally calm 
voice, I slowly and reluctantly acquiesced in an arrangement, 
by which he proposed that we should forever bid adieu to each 

other, and to Clara Mowbray. I would have hesitated at this 
last stipulation. ‘She was,’ I said, ‘my wife, and I was 
entitled to claim her as such.’ 
“This drew down a shower of most moral reproaches, 
_and an assurance that Clara disowned and detested my alliance, 
_and that where there had been an essential error in the person, 
the mere ceremony could never be accounted binding by the 
law of any Christian country. I wonder this had not occurred 


258 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


to me; but my ideas of marriage were much founded on plays 
and novels, where such devices as I had practiced are often 
resorted to for winding up the plot, without any hint of their 
illegality ; besides, I had confided, as I mentioned before, a 
little too rashly perhaps, in my own powers of persuading so 
young a bride as Clara to be contented with one handsome 
fellow instead of another. 

“‘Solmes took up the argument, when Francis released me 
by leaving the room. He spoke of my father’s resentment, 
should this enterprise reach his ears—of the revenge of Mow- 
bray of St. Ronan’s whose nature was both haughty and 
rugged—of risk from the laws of the country, and God knows 
what bugbears besides, which at a more advanced age I would 
have laughed at. In a word, I sealed the capitulation, vowed 
perpetual absence, and banished myself, as they say in this 
country, forth of Scotland. 

‘““And here, Harry, observe and respect my genius. Every 
circumstance was against me in this negotiation. JI had been 
the aggressor in the war; I was wounded, and, it might be 
said, a prisoner in my antagonist’s hands; yet I could so far 
avail myself of Monsieur Martigny’s greater eagerness for 
peace, that I clogged the treaty with a condition highly ad- 
vantageous to myself, and equally unfavorable to him.—Said 
Mr. Francis Martigny was to take upon himself the burden of 
my right honorable father’s displeasure ; and our separation, 
which was certain to. give immense offence, was to be repre- 
sented as his work, not as mine. I insisted, tender-hearted, 
dutiful soul, as I was, that I would consent to no measure 
which was to bring down papa’s displeasure, this was a save gua 
non in our negotiation. 


‘Voila ce que c’est d’avoir des talens.’ 


“Monsieur Francis would, I suppose, have taken the world 
on his shoulders, to have placed an eternal separation betwixt 
his turtle dove and the falcon who had made so bold a pounce 
at her.—What he wrote to my father I know not; as for 
myself, in all duty, I represented ‘the bad state of my health 
from an accident, and that my brother and companion having 
been suddently called from me by some cause which he had not 
explained, I had thought it necessary to get to London for the 
best advice, and only waited his lordship’s permission to return 
to the paternal mansion. ‘This I soon received, and found, as 
I expected, that he was in towering wrath against my brother 
for his disobedience ; and, after some time, I even had reason 


j - ST. RONAN'S WELL, 259 


to think (as, how could it be otherwise, Harry ?), that, on 
becoming better acquainted with the merits and amiable man- 
ners of his apparent heir, he lost any desire which he might 
formerly have entertained, of accomplishing any change in my 
circumstances in relation to the world. Perhaps the old peer 
turned a little ashamed of his own conduct, and dared not aver 
to'the congregation of the righteous (for he became saintly in 
his latter days,) the very pretty frolics which he seems to have 
been guilty of in his youth. Perhaps, also, the death of my 
right honorable mother operated in my favor, since, while she 
lived, my chance was the worse—there is no saying what a man 
will do to spite his wife.—Enough, he died—slept with his 
right honorable fathers, and I became, without opposition, 
Right Honorable in his stead. 

“How I have borne my new honors, thou, Harry, and our 
merry set know full well. Newmarket and Tattersall’s may tell 
the rest.—I think I have been as lucky as most men where luck 
is most prized, and so I shall say no more on that subject. 

* And now, Harry, I will suppose thee in a moralizing 
mood ; that is, I will fancy the dice have run wrong—or your 
double-barrel has hung fire—or a certain lady has looked cross 
—or any such weighty cause of gravity has occurred, and you 
give me the benefit of your seriousness.—‘ My dear. Ethering- 
ton,’ say you pithily, ‘you are a precious fool !—Here you are 
stirring up a business rather scandalous in itself; and fraught 
with mischief to all concerned—a business which might sleep 
forever, if you let it alone, but which is sure, like a sea-coal 
fire, to burst into a flame if you go on poking it. I would like 
to ask your lordship only two questions,’—say you with your 
usual graceful ‘attitude ‘of adjusting your perpendicular’ shirt. 
collar, and passing your hand over the knot of your cravat, 
which deserves a peculiar place in the Z7zetanza—‘ only two 
questions—that is, whether you do not repent the past, and 
whether you do not fear the future ?’ Very comprehensive 
queries these of yours, Harry ; for they respect both the time 
past and the time to come—one’s whole life, in short. How- 
ever, I shall endeavor to answer them as well as I may. 

““ Repent the past, said you ?—Yes, Harry, I think I do 
repent the past—that is, not quite in the parson’s style of re- 
pentance, which resembles yours when you have a headache, 
but as I would repent a hand at cards which I had played on 
false principles. I should have begun with the young lady— 

availed myself'in a very different manner of Monsieur Mar- 
tigny’s absence, and my own intimacy with. her, and. thus 
superseded him, if possible, in the damsel’s affections. The 


260 ST: RONAN’S WELL. 


scheme I adopted, though there was, I think, both boldness and 
dexterity in it, was that of a novice of premature genius, who 
could not calculate chances. So much for repentance.—Do I 
not fear the future ?—Harry, I will not cut your throat for 
supposing you to have put the question, but calmly assure you, 
that I never feared anything in my life. I was born without the 
sensation, I believe ; at least it is perfectly unknown to me. 
When I felt that cursed wheel pass across my breast, when I 
felt the pistol-ball benumb my arm, I felt no more agitation 
than at the bounce of a champagne-cork. But I would not 
have you think that I am fool enough to risk plague, trouble, 
and danger (all of which, besides considerable expense, I am 
now prepared to encounter), without some adequate motive,— 
and here it is. 

‘‘ From various quarters, hints, rumors, and surmises have 
reached me, that an attack will be made on my rank and status 
in society, which can only be in behalf of this fellow Martigny 
(for I will not call him by his stolen name of Tyrrel). . Now, 
this I hold to be a breach of the paction bewixt us, by which 
—that is, by that which I am determined to esteem its true 
meaning and purport—he was to leave my right honorable 
father and me to settle our own matters without his inter- 
ference, which amounted to a virtual resignation of his rights, 
if the scoundrel ever had any. Can he expect I am to resign 
my wife, and what is a better thing, old Scrogie Mowbray’s 
estate of Nettlewood, to gratify the humor of a fellow who 
sets up claims to my title and whole property ? No, by ! 
If he assails me in a point so important, I will retaliate upon 
him in one where he will feel as keenly ; and that he may de- 
pend upon.—And now, methinks, you come upon me with a 
second edition of your grave remonstrances, about family feuds, 
unnatural rencontres, offence to all the feelings of all the world, 
et caetera, et caetera, which you might usher in most delectably 
with the old stave about brethren dwelling together in unity... I 
will not stop to inquire whether all these delicate apprehensions 
are on account of the Earl of Etherington, his safety, and his 
reputation ; or whether my friend Harry Jekyl be not considering 
how far his own interference with such a naughty business wil] 
be well taken at head-quarters ; and so, without pausing on 
that question, I shall barely and briefly say, that you cannot be 
more sensible than I am of the madness of bringing matters to 
such an extremity—I have no such intention, I assure you, 
and it is with no such purpose that I invite you here.-—Were I 
to challenge Martigny, he would refuse me the meeting; and 


* 


, 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 261 


all less ceremonious ways of arranging such an affair are quite 
old-fashioned. 

“It is true at our first meeting I was betrayed into the 
scrape I told you of—just as you may have shot (or shot a¢#, for 
I think you are no downright hitter) a hen-pheasant, when 
flushed within distance, by a sort of instinctive movement, 
without reflecting on the enormity you were about to commit. 
The truth is, there is an ignis fatuus influence, which seems to 
govern our house—it poured its wildfire through my father’s 
veins—it has descended to me in full vigor, and every now and 
then its impulse is irresistible. There was my enemy, and here 
were my pistols, was all I had time to think about the matter. 
But I will be on my guard in future, the more surely, as I 
cannot receive any provocation from him ; on the contrary, if 
I must confess the truth, though I was willing to gloss it a 
little in my first account of the matter (like the Gazette, when 
recording a defeat), I am certain he would never voluntarily 
have fired at me, and that his pistol went off as he fell. You 
know me well enough to be assured, that I will never be again 
in the scrape of attacking an unresisting antagonist, were he 
ten times my brother. 

“ Then, as to this long tirade about hating my brother— 
Harry, I do not hate him more than the first-born of Egypt 
are in general hated by those whom they exclude from entailed 
estates, and so forth—not one landed man in twenty of us that 
is not hated by his younger brothers, to the extent of wishing 
him quiet in his grave, as an abominable stumbling-block in 
their path of life; and so far only doI hate Monsieur Martigny. 
But for the rest, I rather like him as otherwise ; and would he 
but die would give my frank consent to his being canonised ; 
and while he lives, I am not desirous that he should be exposed 
to any temptation from rank and riches, those main obstacles to 
the self-denying course of life, by which the odor of sanctity is 
attained. 

“‘ Here again you break in with your impertinent queries— 
If I have no purpose of quarreling personally with Martigny, 
why do I come into collision with him at all ?—why not abide 
by the treaty of Marchthorn, and remain in England, without 
again approaching St. Ronan’s, or claiming my maiden bride ? 

“ Have I not told you, I want him to cease all threatened 
attempts upon my fortune and dignity? Have I not told you 
that I want to claim my wife, Clara Mowbray, and my estate 
of Nettlewood, fairly won by marrying her !—And, to let you 
into the whole secret, though Clara is a very pretty woman, yet 
she goes for so little inthe transaction with me, her unimpas- 


262 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


sioned bridegroom, that I hope to make some relaxation of my 
rights over her the means of obtaining the concessions which I 
think most important. 

“T will not deny, that an aversion to awakening bustle, and 
encountering reproach, has made me so slow in looking after 
my interest, that the period will shortly expire, within which I 
ought, by old Scrog Mowbray’s will, to qualify myself for be- 
coming his heir, by being the accepted husband of Miss Mow- 
bray of St. Ronan’s. Time was—time is—and if I catchit not 
by the forelock as it passes, time will be no more—Nettlewood 
will be. forfeited—and if I have in addition a lawsuit for my 
title, and for Oakendale, I run arisk of being altogether 
capoted. I must, therefore, act at all risks, and act with vigor 
—and this is the general plan of my campaign, subject always 
to be altered according to circumstances. I have obtained—I 
may say purchased—Mowbray’s consent to address his sister. 
I have this advantage, that if she agrees to take me, she wiil 
forever put a stop to all disagreeable reports and recollections, 
founded on her former conduct. In that case I secure the 
Nettlewood property, and am ready to wage war for my paternal 
state. Indeed, I firmly believe, that should this happy con- 
summation take place, Monsieur Martigny will be too much 
heart-broken to make further fight, but will e’en throw helve 
after hatchet, and run to hide himself, after the fashion of a 
true lover, in some desert beyond seas. 

“But supposing the lady has the bad taste to be obstinate, 
and will none of me, I still think that her happiness, or her 
peace of mind, will be as dear to Martigny, as Gibraltar is to 
the Spaniards, and that he will sacrifice a great deal to induce 
me to give up my pretensions. . Now, I shall want some one 
to act as my agent: in communicating with this fellow; for I 
will not deny that my old appetite for cutting his throat may 
awaken suddenly, were I tohold personal intercourse with him. 
Come thou, therefore, without delay, and hold my backhand— 
Come, for you know me, and that I never left a kindness un- 
rewarded. ‘To be specific, you shall have means to pay off a 
certain inconvenient mortgage, without troubling the tribe of 
Issachar, if you will but be true to me in this matter—Come, 
therefore, without further apologies or further delay. -There 
shall, I give you. my word, neither be risk nor offence in the 
part of the drama which I intend to commit to your charge. 

“Talking of the drama, we had a miserable: attempt at a 
sort of bastard theatricals, at Mowbray’s rat-gnawed mansion. 
There were two things worth noticing—One, that I lost all the 
courage on which [ pique myself, and fairly fled from -the pit. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 263 


tather than present myself before Miss Clara Mowbray, when 
it came tothe push. And upon this I pray you to remark, 
that I am a person of singular delicacy and modesty, instead of 
being the Drawcansir and Daredevil that you would make of 
me. The other memorable is of a more delicate nature, respect- 
ing the conduct of a certain fair lady, who seemed determined 
to fling herself at my head. ‘There is a wonderful degree of 
freemasonry among us folk of spirit; and it is astonishing 
how soon we can place ourselves on a footing with neglected 
wives and discontented daughters. If you come not soon, one 
of the rewards held out toyouin my former letter will certainly 
not be forthcoming. No schoolboy keeps gingerbread for his 
comrade without feeling a desire to nibble at it; so, if you 
appear not to look after your own interest, say you had fair 
warning. For my own part, I am rather embarrassed than 
gratified by the prospect of such an affair, when I have on the 
tapis another of a different nature. This enigma I will explain 
at meeting. 

“Thus finishes my long communication. . If my motives of 
action do not appear explicit, think in what a maze fortune has 
involved me, and how much must necessarily anh: on the 
chapter of accidents. 

“ Yesterday I may be said to have opened my siege, for I 
presented myself before Clara. I had no very flattering recep- 
tion—that was of little consequence, for I did not expect one. 
By alarming her fears, I made an impression thus far, that she 
acquiesces in my appearing before her as her brother’s guest, 
and this is no small point gained. She will become accustomed 
to look on me, and will remember with less bitterness the trick 
which I played her formerly: while I, on the other hand, by 
a similar force of habit, will get over certain awkward feelings 
with which I have been compunctiously visited whenever I 
look upon her.—Adieu! Health and brotherhood. 

“ ‘Thine, 
“¢ ETHERINGTON,” 


264 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH. 
THE REPLY. 


Thou bear’st a precious burden, gentle post, 
Nitre and sulphur—See tat it explode not. 
OLD PLAY. 


‘“‘ | HAVE received your two long letters, my dear Ethering- 
ton, with equal surprise and interest; for what I knew of your 
Scottish adventures before, was by no means sufficient to 
prepare me for a statement so perversely complicated. ‘The 
Ignis Fatuus which, you say, governed your father, seems to 
have ruled the fortunes of your whole house, there is so much 
eccentricity in all that you have told me. But 2’zmporte, Ether- 
ington, you were my friend—you held me up when I was com- 
pletely broken down ; and, whatever you may think, my services 
are at your command, much more from reflections on the past, 
than hopes for the future. I am no speech-maker, but this 
you may rely on while I continue to be Harry Jekyl. You 
have deserved some love at my hands, Etherington, and you 
have it. 

“‘ Perhaps I love you the better since your perplexities have 
become known to me; for, my dear Etherington, you were 
before too much an object of envy to be entirely an object of 
affection. What a happy fellow! was the song of all who 
named your rank, and a fortune to maintain it—luck sufficient 
to repair all the waste that you could make in your income, 
and skill to back that luck, or supply it, should it for a moment 
fail you.u—The cards turning up as if to your wish—the dice 
rolling, it almost seemed, at your wink—it was rather your 
look than the touch of your cue that sent the ball into the 
pocket. You seemed to have fortune in chains, and a man of 
less honor would have been almost suspected of helping his 
luck by a little art—You won every bet; and the instant that 
you were interested, one might have named the winning horse 
—it was always that which you were to gain most by.—You 
never held out your piece but the game went down—and then 
the women !—with face, manners, person, and, above all your 
tongue—what wild work have you made among them !—-Good 
heaven! and have you had the old sword hanging over your 
head by a horsehair all this while ?— Has your rank been 
doubtful ?—Your fortune unsettled ?—And your luck, so con- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 265 


stant in everything else, has that, as well as your predominant 
influence with the women, failed you, when you wished to form 
a connection for life, and when the care of your fortune required 
you to do so ?—Etherington, I am astonished !—The Mowbray 
scrape I always thought an inconvenient one, as well as the 
quarrel with this same Tyrrel, or Martigny ; but I was far from 
guessing the complicated nature of your preplexities. 

“ But I must notrun on in a manner which, though it 
relieves my own marveling mind, cannot be very pleasant to 
you. Enough, I look on my obligations to you as more light 
to be borne, now I have some chance of repaying them toa 
certain extent; but, even were the full debt paid, I would 
remain as much attached to you as ever. It is your friend who 
speaks, Etherington ; and, if he-offers his advice in somewhat 
plain language, do not, I entreat you, suppose that your confi- 
dence has encouraged an offensive familiarity, but consider me 
as one who, in a weighty matter, writes plainly, to avoid the 
least chance of misconstruction. 

“Etherington, your conduct hitherto has resembled any- 
thing rather than the coolness and judgment which are so 
peculiarly your own when you choose to display them. I pass 
over the masquerade of your marriage—it was a boy’s trick, 
which could hardly have availed you much, even if successful ;° 
for what sort of a wife would you have acquired, had this same 
Clara Mowbray proved willing to have accepted the change 
which you had put upon her, and transferred herself, without 
repugnance, from one bridegroom to another ?—Poor as I am, 
I know that neither Nettlewood nor Okendale should have 
bribed me to marry such a I cannot decorously fill up 
the blank. 

“Neither, my dear Etherington, can I forgive you the trick 
you put on the clergyman, in whose eyes you destroyed the 
poor girl’s character to induce him to consent to perform the 
ceremony, and have thereby perhaps fixed an indelible stain on 
her for life—this was not a fair ruse de guerre.-—As it is, you 
have taken little by your stratagem—unless, indeed, it should 
be difficult for the young lady to prove the imposition put upon 
her—for that being admitted, the marriage certainly goes for 
nothing. At least, the only use you can make of it would be 
to drive her into a more formal union, for fear of having this 
whole unpleasant discussion brought into a court of law; and 
in this, with al] the advantages you possess, joined to your own 
arts of persuasion, and her brother’s influence, I should think 
you very likely to succeed. All women are necessarily the 
slaves of their reputation, I have known some who have given 


266 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


up their virtue to preserve their character, which is, after all, 
only the shadow of it. I therefore would not conceive it diffk 
cult for Clara Mowbray to persuade herself to become‘a countess 
rather than be the topic of conversation for all Britain, while a 
lawsuit betwixt you is in dependence; and that maybe for the 
greater part of both your lives. 

“But, in Miss Mowbray’s state of mind, it may require time 
to bring her to such a conclusion; and I fear you will be 
thwarted in your operations by your rival—I will not offend you 
by calling him your brother. Now, it is here that I think with 
pleasure I may be of some use to you,—under this special 
condition, that there shall be no thoughts of further violence 
taking place between you. However you may have smoothed 
over your rencontre to yourself, there is no doubt that the public 
would have regarded any accident which might have befallen on 
that occasion, as a crime of the deepest dye, and that the law 
would have followed it with the most severe punishment. And 
for all that I have said of my serviceable disposition, I would 
fain stop short on this side of the gallows—my neck is too long 
already. Without a jest, Etherington, you must be ruled by 
counsel in this matter. I detect your hatred to this man in 
every line of your letter, even when you write with the greatest 
‘coolness ; even where there is an affectation of gayety, I read 
your sentiments on this subject; and they are such as—I will 
not preach to you—I will not say a good man—but such as 
every wise man—every man who wishes to live on fair terms 
with the world, and to escape general malediction, and perhaps 
a violent death, where all men will clap their hands and rejoice 
at the punishment of the fratricide—would, with all possible 
speed eradicate from his breast. My services, therefore, if they 
are worth your acceptance, are offered, on the condition that 
this unholy hatred be subdued with the utmost force of your 
powerful mind, and that you avoid everything which can 
possibly lead to such a catastrophe as you have twice narrowly 
escaped. I do not ask you to like this man, for I know well 
the deep root which your prejudices hold in your mind; I 
merely ask you to avoid him, and to think of him as one who, 
if you do meet him, can never be the object. of personal re- 
sentment. 

“On these conditions I will instantly join you at your Spa, 
and wait but your answer to throw myself into the post-chaise. 
I will seek out this Martigny for you, and I have the vanity to 
think I,shall be able to persuade him to take the course which 
his own true interest, as well as yours, so plainly points out— 
and that is to depart and make us free of him, You must not 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 267 


grudge a round sum of money, should that prove necessary— 
we must make wings for him to fly with, and I must be em- 
powered by you to that purpose. 1 cannot think you have any 
thing serious to fear froma lawsuit. Your father threw out 
this sinister hint at a moment when he was enraged at his 
wife, and irritated by his son; and I have little doubt that 
his expressions were merely flashes of anger at the moment, 
though I see they have made a deep impression on you. At 
all events, he spoke of a preference to his illegitimate son, as 
something which it was in his own power to give or to with- 
hold; and he has died without bestowing it. The family seem 
addicted to irregular matrimony, and some left-handed marriage 
there may have been used to propitiate the modesty, and save 
the conscience, of the French lady; but that anything of the 
nature of a serious and legal ceremony took place, nothing but 
the strongest proof can make me believe. 

“T repeat, then, that I have little doubt that the claims of 
Martigny, whatever they are, may be easily compounded, and 
England made clear of him. ‘This will be more easily done, if 
he really entertains such a romantic passion, as you describe, 
for Miss Clara Mowbray. It would be easy to show him that, 
whether she is disposed to accept your lordship’s hand or not, 
her quiet and peace of mind must depend on his leaving the 
country. Rely on it I shall find out the way to smooth him 
down, and whether distance or the grave divide Martigny and 
you, is very little to the purpose, unless in so far as the one point 
can be attained with honor and safety, and the other, if at- 
tempted, would only make all concerned the subject of general 
execration and deserved punishment.—-Speak the word, and I 
attend you, as your truly grateful and devoted 

“HENRY JEKYL.” 


To this admonitory epistle, the writer received, in the course 
of post, the following answer :— 


“My truly grateful and devoted Henry Jekyl has adopted a 
tone which seems to be exalted without any occasion. Why, 
thou suspicious monitor, have I not repeated a hundred times 
that I repent sincerely of the foolish rencontre, and am deter- 
mined to curb my temper and be on my guard’ in future—And 
what need you come upon me, with your long lesson about exe- 
cration, and punishment, and fratricide, and so forth ?—You 
deal with an argument as a boy does with the first hare he 
shoots, which he never thinks dead till he has fired the second 
barrel into her. What a fellow you would have been for a 


268 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


lawyer ! how long you would have held forth upon the plainest 
cause, until the poor bothered judge was almost willing to de- 
cide against justice, that he might be revenged on you. If I 
must repeat what I have said twenty times, I tell you I have 
no thoughts of proceeding with this fellow as I would with 
another, If my father’s blood be in his veins, it shall save the 
skin his mother gave him. And so come without more parade, 
either of stipulation or argument. Thou art, indeed, a curious 
animal! One would think, to read your communication, that 
you had yourself discovered the propriety of acting as a negoti- 
ator, and the reasons which might, in the course of sucha 
treaty, be urged with advantage to induce this fellow to leave 
the country—Why, this is the very course chalked out in my 
last letter! . You are bolder than the boldest gypsy, for you 
not only steal my ideas, and disfigure them, that they may pass 
for yours, but you have the assurance to come a-begging with 
them to the door of the original parent! No man like you 
for stealing other men’s inventions, and cooking them up in 
yourown way. However, Harry, bating a little self-conceit and 
assumption, thou art as honest a fellow as ever man put faith 
in—clever, too, in your own style, though not quite the genius 
you would fain pass for—Come on thine own terms, and 
come as speedily as thou canst. I do not reckon the promise 
I made the less binding, that you very generously make no 
allusion to it. 
| “Thine, 
‘““ ETHERINGTON. 


“ P, $.—One single caution I must add—do not mention my 
name to any one at Harrowgate, or your prospect of meeting me, 
or the route which you are about to take. On the purpose of 
your journey, it isunnecessary to recommend silence. I know 
not whether such doubts are natural to all who have secret 
measures to pursue, or whether nature has given mean unusual 
share of anxious suspicion ; but I cannot divest myself of the 
idea, that I am closely watched by some one whom I cannot 
discover.—Although I concealed my purpose of coming hither 
from all mankind but you, whom I do not for an instant suspect 
of babbling, yet it was known to this Martigny, and he is down 
here before me. Again, I said not a word—gave nota hint to 
any one of my views toward Clara, yet the tattling people here 
had spread a report of a marriage depending between us, even 
before I could make the motion to herbrother. To be sure, in 
such society there is nothing talked of but marrying and 
giving in marriage ; and this, which alarms me, as connected 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 269 


with my own private purposes, may be a bare rumot, arising 
out of the gossip of the place—Yet I feel like the poor woman 
in the old story, who felt herself watched by an eye that glared 
upon her from behind the tapestry. 

“I should have told you in my last, that I had been recog- 
nized at a public entertainment, by the old clerg gyman who 
pronounced the matrimonial blessing on Clara and me nearly 

eight years ago. He insisted upon addressing me by the name 
of Valentine ‘Bulmer, under which I was then best known. — It 
did not suit me at present to put him into my confidence, so I 
cut him, Harry, as I would an old pencil. The task was the 
less difficult, that I had to do with one of the most absent men 
that ever dreamed with his eyes open. I verily believe he 
might be persuaded that the whole transaction was a vision, 
and that he had never in reality seen me before. Your pious 
rebuke, therefore, about what I told him formerly concerning 
the lovers is quite thrown away. After all, if what I said was 
not accurately true, as I certainly believe it was an exaggera- 
tion, it was all Saint Francis of Martigny’ s fault, I suppose. I 
am sure he had love and opportunity on his side. 

“Here you have a postscript, Harry, longer than the letter, 
but it must conclude with the same burden—Come, and come 
quickly.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH. 


THE FRIGHT. 


As shakes the bough of trembling leaf, 
When sudden whirlwinds-rise ; 
As stands aghast the warrior chief, 
When his base army flies. 
* 


Ir had been settled by all who took the matter into con- 
sideration, that the fidgety, fiery old Nabob would soon quarrel 
with his landlady, Mrs. Dods, and become impatient of his 
residence at St. Ronan’s. A man so kind to himself, and so 
inquisitive about the affairs of others, could have, it was sup- 
posed, a limited sphere for gratification either of his tastes or 
of his curiosity, in the Aultoun of St. Ronan’s; and many a 
time the precise day and hour of his departure were fixed by 
the idlers at the Spa. But still old Touchwood appeared 
amongst them, when the weather permitted, with his nut-brown 


270 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


visage, his throat carefully wrapped up in an immense Indian 
kerchief, and his gold-headed cane, which he never failed to 
carry over his shoulder; his short, but stout limbs, and his 
active step, showed plainly that he bore it rather as a badge of 
dignity than a means of support. ‘There he stood, answering 
shortly and gruffly to all questions proposed to him, and mak- 
ing his remarks aloud upon the company, with great indiffer- 
ence as to, the offence which might be taken; and as soon as 
the ancient priestess had handed him his glass of the salutif- 
erous water, turned on his heel with a brief good-morning, and 
either marched back to hide himself in the Manse, with his 
crony, Mr. Cargill, or to engage in some - hobbyhorsical pursuit 
connected with his neighbors in the Aultoun. 

The truth was, that the honest gentleman having, so far as 
Mrs. Dods would permit, put matters to rights within her resi- 
dence, wisely abstained from pushing his innovations any fur- 
ther, aware that it is not every stone which is capable of re- 
ceiving the last degree of polish. He next set himself about 
putting Mr. Cargill’s house into order; and, without leave 
asked or given by that reverend gentleman, he actually accom- 
plished as wonderful a reformation in the Manse, as could 
have been effected by a benevolent Brownie. ‘The floors were 
sometimes swept—the carpets were sometimes shaken—the 
plates and dishes were cleaner—there was tea and sugar in 
the tea-chest, and a joint of meat at proper times was to be 
found in the larder. ‘The elder maid-servant wore a good stuff 
gown—the younger snooded up her hair, and now went about 
the house a damsel so trig and neat, that some said she was 
too handsome for the service of a bachelor divine; and others, 
that they saw no business so old a fool as the Nabob had to be 
meddling with the lassie’s busking. But for such evil bruits 
Mr. Touchwood cared not, even if he happened to hear ot 
them, which was very doubtful. Add to all these changes, 
that the garden was weeded, and the glebe was regularly 
labored. 

The talisman by which all this desirable alteration was 
wrought, consisted partly in small presents, partly in constant 
attention. The liberality of the singular old gentleman gave 
him a perfect right to scold when he saw things wrong; the 
domestics, who had fallen into total sloth and indifference 
began to exhert themselves under Mr. Touchwood’s new sytem, 
of rewards and surveillance ; and the minister, half unconscious 
of the cause, reaped the advantage of the exertions of his busy 
friend. Sometimes he lifted his head, when he heard work- 
mep thumping and bouncing in the neighborhood of his study, 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 271 


and demanded the meaning of the clatter which annoyed him ; 
but on receiving for answer that it was by order of Mr. Touch- 
wood, he resumed his labors, under the persuasion that all was 
well. 

But even the Augean task of putting the Manse in order 
did not satisfy the gigantic activity of Mr. Touchwood. He 
aspired to universal dominion in the Aultoun of St. Ronan’s; 
and, like most men of an ardent temper, he contrived, in a 
great measure, to possess himself of the authority he longed 
after. Then was there war waged by him with all the petty 
but perpetual nuisances, which infest a Scottish town of the 
old stamp—then was the hereditary dunghill, which had reeked 
before the window of the cottage for four-score years, transported 
behind the house—then was the broken wheelbarrow, or unser- 
viceable cart, removed out of the footpath—the old hat, or blue 
petticoat, taken from the window into which it had been 
stuffed, ‘‘to expel the winter’s flaw,’ was consigned to the 
gutter, and its place supplied by good perspicuous glass. The 
means by which such reformation was effected, were the same 
as resorted to in the Manse—money and admonition. The 
latter given alone would have met little attention—perhaps 
would have provoked opposition—but, softened and sweetened 
by a little present to assist the reform recommended, it sunk 
into the hearts of the hearers, and in general overcame their 
objections. Besides, an opinion of the Nabob’s wealth was 
high among the villagers; and an idea prevailed amongst 
them, that, notwithstanding his keeping no servants or equip- 
age, he was able to purchase, if he pleased, half the land in 
the country. It was not grand carriages and fine liveries that 
made heavy purses, they rather helped to lighten them; and 
they said, who pretended to know what they were talking 
about, that old Turnpenny, and Mr. Bindloose to boot, would 
tell down more money on Mr. Touchwood’s mere word, than 
upon the joint bond of half the fine folks at the Well. Such 
an opinion smoothed everything before the path of one, who 
showed himself neither averse to give nor to lend; and it by 
no means diminished the reputation of his wealth, that in 
transactions of business he was not carelessly negligent of his 
interest, but plainly showed he understood the value of what 
he was parting with. Few, therefore, cared to withstand the 
humors of a whimsical old gentleman, who had both the will 
and the means of obliging those disposed to comply with his 
fancies ; and thus the singular stranger contrived, in the course 
of a brief space of days or weeks, to place the villagers more 
absolutely at his devotion, than they had been to the pleasure 


272 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


of any individual] since their ancient lords had left the Aultoun. 
The power of the baron-bailie. himself, though the office was 
vested in the person of old Meiklewham, was a subordinate 
jurisdiction, compared to the voluntary allegiance which the 
inhabitants paid to Mr. ‘Touchwood. 

There were, however, recusants, who declined the authority 
thus set up amongst them, and, with the characteristic obsti- 
nacy of their countrymen, refused to hearken to the words of 
the stranger, whether they were for good or for evil. These 
men’s dunghills were’ not removed, nor the stumbling-blocks 
taken from the footpath, where it passed the front of their 
houses. And it befell, that while Mr. Touchwood was most 
eager in abating the nuisances of the village, he had very 
nearly experienced a frequent fate of great reformers—that of 
losing his life by means of one of those.enormities which as yet 
had subsisted in spite of all his efforts. 

The Nabob, finding his time after dinner hang somewhat 
heavy on his hand, and the moon being tolerably bright, had, 
one harvest evening, sought his usual remedy for dispelling 
ennui by a walk to the Manse, where he was sure, that, if he 
could not succeed in engaging the minister himself in some dis- 
putation, he would at least find something in the establishment 
to animadvert upon and restore to order, 

Accordingly, he had taken the opportunity to lecture the 
younger of the minister’s lasses upon the duty of wearing shoes 
and stockings; and, as his advice came fortified by a present 
of six pair of white cotton hose, and two pair of stout leathern 
shoes, it was received, not with respect only, but with grati- 
tude, and the chuck under the chin that rounded up the oration, 
while she opened the outer door for his honor, was acknowl- 
ledged with a blush and a giggle. Nay, so far did Grizzy 
carry her sense of Mr. Touchwood’s kindness, that, observing 
the moon was behind a-cloud, she very carefully offered to es- 
cort him to the Cleikum Inn with a lantern, in case he should 
come tosome harm bythe gate. ‘This the traveler’s independent 
- spirit scorned to listen to; and, having assured her that he had 
walked the streets of Paris and of Madrid whole nights without 
such an accommodation, he stoutly strode off on his return to his 
lodgings. 

An accident, however, befell him, which, unless the police 
of Madrid and Paris be belied, might have happened in either 
of those two splendid capitals, as well as in the miserable Aultoun 
of St. Ronan’s. Before the door of Saunders Jaup, a feuar of 
some importance, ‘‘ who held his land free, and caredna a bodle 
for ony ane,” yawned that odoriferous gulf, ycleped, in Scottish 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 273 


phrase, the jaw-hole, in other words, an uncovered common 
sewer. ‘The local situation of this receptacle of filth was well 
known to Mr. Touchwood ; for Saunders Jaup was at the very 
head of those who held out for the practices of their fathers, 
and still maintained those ancient and unsavory customs which 
our traveler had in so many instances succeeded in abating. 
Guided, therefore, by his nose, the Nabob madea considerable 
circuit to avoid the displeasure and danger of passing this filthy 
puddle at the nearest, and by that means fell upon Scylla as he 
sought toavoid Charybdis. Inplain language, he approached 
so near the bank of a little rivulet, which in that place passed 
betwixt the foot-path and the horse-road, that he lost his footing, 
and fell into the channel of the streamlet from a height of three 
orfourfeet. It was thought that the noise of his fall, or at least 
his call for assistance, must have been heard in the house of 
Saunders Jaup; but that honest person was, according to his 
own account, at that time engaged in the exercise of the even- 
ing—an excuse which passed current, although Saunders was 
privately heard to allege, that the town would have been the 
quieter, “if the auld meddling busy-body had bidden still in the 
burn for gude and a.’” 

But fortune had provided better for poor Touchwood, whose 
foibles, as they rose out of the most excellent motives, would 
have ill deserved so severe afate. A passenger who heard him 
. shout for help, ventured cautiously to the side of the bank, 
down which he had fallen ; and, after ascertaining the nature 
of the ground as carefully as the darkness permitted, was at 
length, and not without some effort, enabled to assist him out 
of the channel of the rivulet. 

“Are you hurt materially ?” said this good Samaritan to the 
object of his care. 

“ No—no—d—n it—no,” said Touchwood, extremely angry 
at his disaster, and the cause of it. ‘“ Do you think I, who have 
been at the summit of Mount Athos, where the precipice sinks 
a thousand feet on the sea, care a farthing about such a fall as 
this is?” 

But, as he spoke, he reeled, and his kind assistant caught 
him by the arm to prevent his falling. 

“T fear you are more hurt than you suppose, sir,” said the 
stranger ; “permit me to go home along with you.” 

_ “With all my heart,” said Touchwood; “for, though it is 
impossible I can need help in such a foolish matter, yet Iam 
equally obliged to you, friend ; and if the Cleikum Inn be not 
out of your road, I will take your arm so far, and thank you to 
the boot,” 


274 SZ. RONAN’S WELL, 


“Tt is much at your service, sir,” said the stranger; ‘ in- 
deed, I was thinking to lodge there for the night.” 

“Tam glad to hear it,” resumed Touchwood; “ you shall 
be my guest, and I will make them look after you in proper 
fashion—You seem to be a very civil sort of fellow, and I do not 
find your arm inconvenient—it is the rheumatism makes me walk 
so ill—the pest of all that have been in hot climates when they 
settle among these d—d fogs.” 

“Lean as hard and walk as slow as you will, sir,” said the 
benevolent assistant—“ this is a rough street.” 

“Ves, sir—and why is it rough?” answered Touchwood, 
““Why, because the old pig-headed fool, Saunders Jaup, will not 
allow it to be made smooth. ‘There he sits, sir, and obstructs 
all rational improvement; and, if a man would not fall into his 
infernal putrid gutter, and so become an abomination unto him- 
self and odious to others, for his whole life to come, he runs 
the risk of breaking his neck, as I have done to-night.” 

“T am afraid, sir,” said his companion, ‘‘ you have fallenon 
the most dangerous side. —You remember Swift’s proverb, ‘The 
more dirt the less hurt.” 

‘“ But why should there be either dirt or hurt in a well- 
regulated place ?” answered Touchwood—“ Why should not men 
be able to go about their affairs at night, in such a hamlet as 
this, without either endangering necks or noses ?—Our Scottish 
magistrates are worth nothing, sir—nothing at all. Oh fora 
Turkish cadi, now, to trounce the scoundrel—-or the Mayor of 
Calcutta, to bring him into his court—or were it but an English 
Justice of the Peace that is newly included in the commission 
—they would abate the villain’s nuisance with a vengeance on — 
him—But here we are—this is the Cleikum Inn.—Hallo— 
hilloa—house !—Eppie Anderson !—Beenie -Chambermaid !— 
boy Boots !—Mrs. Dods !—are you all of you asleep and dead ? 
—Here have I been half murdered, and you let me stand bawl- 
ing at the door!” 

Eppie Anderson came with a light, and so did Beenie 
Chambermaid with another; but no sooner did they look upon 
the pair who stood in the porch under the huge sign that swung 
to and fro with heavy creaking, than Beenie screamed, flung 
away her candle, though a four in the pound, and ina newly- 
japanned candlestick, and fled one way, while Eppie Anderson, 
echoing the yell, brandished her light round her head like a 
Bacchante flourishing her torch, and ran off in another direction, 

‘‘ Ay—lI must be a bloody spectacle,” said Mr. Touchwood, 
letting himself fall heavily upon his assistant’s shoulder, and 
wiping his face, which trickled with wet—“‘I did not think I 


ee? yee 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 278 


had been so seriously hurt; but I find my weakness now—I 
must have lost much blood.” 

“‘T hope you are still mistaken,” said the stranger; ‘ but 
here lies the way to the kitchen—we shall find light there, since 
no one chooses to bring it to us.” 

He assisted the old gentleman into the kitchen, where a 
lamp, as well as a bright fire, was burning, by the light of 
which he could easily discern that the supposed blood was only 
water of the rivulet, and, indeed, none of the cleanest, although 
much more so than the sufferer would have found it a little 
lower, where the stream is joined by the superfluities of Saun- 
ders Jaup’s palladium. Relieved by his new friend’s repeated 
assurances that such was the case, the senior began to bustle 
up a little, and his companion, desirous to render him every 
assistance, went to the door of the kitchen to call for a basin 
and water. Just as he was about to open the door, the voice 
of Mrs. Dods was heard as she descended the stairs, in a tone 
of indignation by no means unusual to her, yet mingled at the 
same time with a few notes that sounded like unto the quaver- 
ings of consternation.” 

Idle limmers—silly sluts—I warrant nane o’ ye will ever 
see onything waur than yoursell, ye silly taupies—Ghaist, 
indeed !—I’ll warrant it’s some idle dub-skelper frae the Waal, 
coming after some o’ yoursells on nae honest errand—Ghaist, 
indeed !—Haud up the candle, John Ostler—lI’se warrant it a 
twa-handed ghaist, and the door left on the sneck—There’s 
somebody in the kitchen—gang forward wi’ the lantern, John 
Ostler.” 

At this critical moment the stranger opened the door of the 
kitchen, and beheld the dame advancing at the head of her 
household troops. The ostler and humpbacked postilion, one 
bearing a stable-lantern and a hay-fork, the other a rushlight 
and a broom, constituted the advanced guard; Mrs. Dods 
herself formed the centre, talking loud and brandishing a pair 
of tongs; while the two maids, like troops not much to be 
trusted after their recent defeat, followed, cowering, in the rear. 
But notwithstanding this admirable disposition, no sooner had 
the stranger shown his face, and pronounced the words ‘ Mrs. 
Dods,” than a panic seized the whole array. The advanced 
guard recoiled in consternation, the ostler upsetting Mrs. Dods 
in the confusion of his retreat; while she, grappling with him 
in her terror, secured him by the ears and hair, and they joined 
their cries together in hideous chorus. The two maidens re- 
sumed their former flight, and took refuge in the darksome 
den, entitled their bedroom, while the humpbacked postilion 


276 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


fled like the wind into the stable, and, with professional instinct, 
began in the extremity of his terror, to saddle a horse. 

Meanwhile, the guest whose appearance had caused this 
combustion, plucked the roaring ostler from above Mrs. Dods, 
and pushing him away with a hearty slap on the shoulder, pro- 
ceeded to raise and encourage the fallen landlady, inquiring, at 
the same time, ‘‘ What, in the devil’s name, was the cause of 
all this senseless confusion ?” 

“* And what is the reason, in Heaven’s name,” answered the 
matron, keeping her eyes firmly shut, and still shrewish in her 
expostulation, though in the very extremity of terror, “what is 
the reason that you should come and frighten a decent house, 
where you met naething but the height of civility ?” . 

“And why should I frighten you, Mrs. Dods, or, in one 
word, what is the meaning of all this nonsensical terror?” 

‘“‘ Are not you,” said Mrs. Dods, opening her eyes a little as 
she spoke, “the ghaist of Francis Tirl ?” . 

“Tam Francis Tyrrel, unquestionably my old friend.” 

“ T kend it ! I kend it!” answered the honest woman, re- 
lapsing into her agony ; and I think ye might be ashamed of 
yoursell, that are a ghaist, and have nae better to do than to 
frighten a puir auld alewife.” 

“On my word, I am no ghost, but a living man,” answered 
Tyrrel. 

“Were you no murdered than ? ” said Mrs. Dods, still in an 
uncertain voice, and only partially opening her eyes—“ Are ye 
very sure ye werena murdered ?” 

“Why, not that ever I heard of, certainly, dame,” replied 
Tyrrel. : 

“But Z shall be murdered presently,” said old Touchwood 
from the kitchen, where he had hitherto remained a mute 
auditor of this extraordinary scene—‘ Z shall be murdered, 
unless you fetch me some water without delay.” 

‘‘ Coming, sir, coming,” answered Dame Dods, her profes- 
sonal reply being as familiar to her as that of poor Francis’s 
‘“‘ Anon, anon, sir.” “ As I live by honest reckonings,” said 
she, fully collecting herself, and giving a glance of more com- 
posed temper at Tyrrel, “I believe it zs yoursell, Maister Frank, 
in blood and body after a’—and see if J dinna gie a proper sort- 
ing to yon twa silly jauds that gard me mak a bogle of you, and 
a fule of mysell—Ghaist ! my certie, I sall ghaist them—if they 
had their heads as muckle on their wark as on their daffing, they 
wad play nae sic pliskies—it’s the wanton steed that scaurs at 
the windlestrae—Ghaist ! wha e’er heard of ghaists in an honest 
house ? Naebody need fear bogles that has a conscience void 


ST. RONAN’'S WELL. any 


of offence.—But I am blithe that MacTurk hasna murdered ye 
when a’ is dune, Maister Frankie.” 

“Come this way, Mother Dods, if you would not have me 
do a mischief ! ” exclaimed Touchwood, grasping a plate which 
stood on the dresser, as if he were about to heave it at the land- 
lady, by way of recalling her attention. 

“ For the love of Heaven, dinna break it!’ exclaimed the 
alarmed landlady, knowing that Touchwood’s effervescence of 
impatience sometimes expended itself at the expense of her 
crockery, though it was afterward liberally atoned for. “ Lord, 
sir, are ye out of your wits ?—it breaksa set, ye ken—Godsake, 
put doun the cheeny plate, and try your hand on the delf-ware ! 
—it will just make as good a jingle—But, Lord haud a grip o’ 
us ! now I look at ye, what can hae come ower ye, and what sort 
of a plight are ye in ?—Wait till I fetch water and a towel.” 

In fact, the miserable guise of her new lodger now overcame 
the dame’s curiusity to inquire after the fate of her earlier ac- 
quaintance, and she gave her instant and exclusive attention to 
Mr. Touchwood, with many exclamations, while aiding him to 
perform the task of ablution and abstersion. Her two fugitive 
handmaidens had by this time returned to the kitchen, and en- 
devored to suppress a smuggled laugh at the recollection of 
their mistress’s panic, by acting very officiously in Mr. Touch- 
wood’s service. By dint of washing and drying, the token of 
the sable stains was at length removed, and the veteran became, 
with some difficulty, satisfied that he had been more dirtied and 
frightened than hurt. ; 

Tyrrel, in the meantime, stood looking on with wonder, 
imagining that he beheld in the features which emerged from 
a mask of mud the countenance of an old friend. After the 
operation was ended, he could not help addressing himself to 
Mr. ‘Touchwood, to demand whether he had not the pleasure to 
see a friend to whom he had been obliged when at Smyrna, for 
some kindness respecting his money matters ? 

“Not worth speaking of—not worth speaking of,” said Touch- 
wood hastily. ‘Glad to see you, though—glad to see you. 
Yes, here I am ; you will find me the same good-natured old 
fool that I was at Smyrna——never look how I am to get in 
money again—always laying it out. Never mind—it was 
written in my forehead, as the Turk says. I will go up now 
and change my dress—you will sup with me when I come back 
—Mrs. Dods will toss us up something—a brandered fowi wiil 
be best, Mrs. Dods, with some mushrooms, and get us a jug of 
mulled wine—plottie, as you call it—to put the recollection of 
the old Presbyterian’s common sewer out of my head,” 


278 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


So saying, up stairs marched the traveler to his own apart- 
ment, while Tyrrel, seizing upon a candle, was about to do the 
same. 

‘ Mr Touchwood is in the blue room, Mrs. Dods ; I suppose 
I may take possession of the yellow one?” 

‘“¢ Suppose naething about the matter, Maister Frankie Tirl 
till ye tell me downright where ye hae been a’ this time, and 
whether ye hae been murdered or no.” 

“T think you may be pretty well satisfied of that, Mrs. 
Dods ?” 

“'Troth ! and so I am in a sense; and yet it gars me grue 
to look upon ye, sae mony days and weeks it has been since I 
thought ye were rotten in the moulds. And now to see ye 
standing before me hale and feir, and crying for a bedroom like 
ither folk!” 

‘““One would almost suppose, my good friend,” said Tyrrel, 
“that you were sorry at my having come alive again.” 

“Tt’s no for that,” replied Mrs. Dods, who was peculiarly 
ingenious in the mode of framing and stating what she con- 
ceived to be her grievances ; “‘ but is it not a queer thing for a 
decent man like yoursell, Maister Tirl, to be leaving your 
lodgings without a word spoken, and me put to a’ these charges 
in seeking for your dead body, and very near taking my busi- 
ness out of honest Maister Bindloose’s hands, because he kend 
the cantrips of the like of you better than I did ?—and than 
they hae putten up an advertisement down at the Waal yonder, 
wi’ a’ their names at it, setting ye forth, Maister Frankie, as 
ane of the greatest blackguards unhanged ; and wha, div ye 
think, is to keep ye in a creditable house, if that’s the character 
ye get?” 

“You may leave that to me, Mrs. Dods—I assure you that 
matter shall be put to rights to your satisfaction ; and I think, 
so long as we have known each other, you may take my word 
that I am not undeserving the shelter of your roof for a single 
night (I shall ask it no longer), until my character is suffi- 
ciently cleared. It was for that purpose I chiefly came back 
again.” 

“Came back again !’’ said Mrs. Dods. ‘I profess ye made 
me start, Maister Tirl, and you looking sae pale, too. But I 
think,” she added, straining after a joke, “if ye were a ghaist, 
seeing we are such auld acquaintance, ye wadna wish to spoil 
my custom, but would just walk decently up and down the 
auld castle wa’s, or maybe down at the kirk yonder—there have 
been awfu’ things dune in that kirk and kirkyard—I whiles 
dinna like to look that way, Maister Frankie,” 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 279 


“T am much of your mind, mistress,” said Tyrrel, with a 
sigh ; ‘and, indeed, I do in one sense resemble the appari- 
tions you talk of ; for, like them, and to as little purpose, I 
stalk about scenes where my happiness departed. But I speak 
riddles to you, Mrs. Dods—the plain truth is, that I met with 
an accident on the day I last left your house, the effects of 
which detained me at some distance from St. Ronan’s till this 
very day,” 

“Hegh, sirs, and ye were sparing of your trouble, that 
wadna write a bit line, or send a bit message !—Ye might hae 
thought folk wad hae been vexed eneugh about ye, forby under- 
taking journeys, and hiring folk to seek for your dead body.” 

“T shall willingly pay all reasonable charges which my dis- 
appearance may have occasioned,’’ answered her guest ; “‘ and 
I assure you, once for all, that my remaining for some time 
quiet at Marchthorn, arose partly from illness, and partly from 
business of a very pressing and particular nature.” 

“At Marchthorn !”° exclaimed Dame Dods, “‘ heard ever man 
the like o’ that !—And where did ye put up in Marchthorn, an 
ane may mak bauld to speer? ” 

“At the Black Bull,” replied Tyrrel. 

“Ay, that’s auld Tam Lowrie’s—a very decent man, Thamas 
—and a douce creditable house—nane of your flisk-ma-hoys—I 
am glad ye made choice of sic gude quarters, neighbor; for I 
am beginning to think ye are but a queer ane—ye look as if 
butter wadna melt in your mouth, but I sall warrant cheese no 
choke ye.—But Ill thank ye to gang your ways into the parlor, 
for 1am no like to get muckle mair out o’ ye, it’s like ; and ye 
are standing - here just in the gate, when we hae the suipper to 
dish.” 

Tyrrel, glad to be released from the examination to which 
his landlady’s curiosity had without ceremony subjected him, 
walked into the parlor, where he was presently joined by Mr. 
Touchwood, newly attired, and high in spirits. 

“Here comes our supper!” he exclaimed.—‘ Sit ye down, 
and let us see what Mrs. Dods has done for us.—lI profess, 
mistress, your plottie is excellent, ever since I taught you to 
mix the spices in the right proportion.” 

~“T am glad the plottie pleases ye, sir—but I think I kend 
gay weel how to make it before I saw your honor—Maister 
Tirl can ‘tell that, for mony a browst of it I hae brewed lang 
syne for him and the callant Valentine Bulmer.” 

This ill-timed observation extorted a groan from Tyrrel ; but 
the traveler, running on with his-‘own recollections, did not 
appear to notice his emotion. 


280 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“ You are a conceited old woman,” said Mr. Touchwood ; 
** how the devil should any one know how to mix spices so well 
as he who has been where they grow ?—TI have seen the sun 
ripening nutmegs and cloves, and here it can hardly fill a peas- 
cod, by Jupiter! Ah, Tyrrel, the merry nights we have had at 
Smyrna !—Gad, I think the gammon and the good wine taste 
all the better in a land where folks hold them to be sinful in- 
dulgence—Gad, I believe many a good Moslem is of the same 
opinion—that same prohibition of their prophet’s gives a flavor 
to the ham, and a relish to the Cyprus.—Do you remember old 
Cogia Hassein, with his green turban ?—I once played him a 
trick, and put a pint of brandy into his sherbet. Egad, the old 
fellow took care never to discover the cheat until he had got to 
the bottom of the flagon, and then he strokes his long white 
beard, and says, ‘ Ullah Kerim ’—that is, ‘ Heaven is merciful,’ 
Mrs. Dods, Mr. Tyrrel knows the meaning of it—Ullah Kerim, 
says he, after he had drunk about a gallon of brandy-punch !— 
Ullah Kerim, says the hypocritical old rogue, as if he had done 
the finest thing in the world !”’ 

‘And what for no ? What for shouldna the honest man say 
a blessing after his drap punch?” demanded Mrs. Dods; “ it 
was better, I ween, than blasting, and blawing, and swearing, 
_as if folks shouldna be thankful for the creature-comforts.”’ 

“Well said, old Dame Dods,” replied the traveler ; ‘ that 
is a right hostess’s maxim, and worthy of Mrs. Quickly herself. 
Here is to thee, and I pray ye to pledge me before ye leave the 
room.” 

“'Troth, Vl] pledge naebody the night, Maister Touchwood ; 
for, what wi’ the upcast and terror that I got a wee while syne, 
and what wi’ the bit taste that I behoved to take of the plottie 
while I was making it, my head is sair enough distressed the 
night already.—Maister Tirl, the yellow room is ready for ye’ 
when you like; and, gentlemen, as the morn is the Sabbath, I 
canna be keeping the servant queans out of their beds to wait 
on ye ony langer,.for they will make it an excuse for lying till 
aught o’clock on the Lord’s day. So, when your plottie is done, 
I'll be muckle obliged to ye to light the bedroom candles, and 
put out the double moulds, and e’en show yoursells to your 
beds ; for douce folks, sic as.the like of you, should. set an 

example by ordinary _—And so, gude-night to ye baith.” 

‘“‘ By my faith,” said Touchwood, as she withdrew, ‘ our dame 
turns as obstinate.as a Pacha with three tails |—We have. her 
gracious permission to finish our ,mug, however ; so here is to 
your health once more, Mr. Tyrrel, wishing, you a magi: wish 
come to your own country.” 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 281 


“TI thank you, Mr. Touchwood,” answered Tyrrel ; “ and I 
return you the same good wishes, with, as I sincerely hope, a 
much greater chance of their being realized—You relieved me, 
sir, at a time when the villiany of an agent, prompted, as I have 
reason to think, by an active and powerful enemy, occasioned 
my being, for a time, pressed for funds.—I made remittances 
to the Ragzon you dealt with, to acquit myself at least of the 
pecuniary part of my obligation ; but the bills were returned, 
because, it was stated, you had left Smyrna.” 

“Very true—very true—left Smyrna, and here I am in Scot: 
land—as for the bills, we will speak of them another time— 
something due for picking me out of the gutter.” 

“T shall make no deduction on that account,” said Tyrrel, 
smiling, though in no jocose mood; “and I beg you not to 
mistake me. The circumstances of embarrassment under which 
you found me at Smyrna were merely temporary—I am most 
able and willing to pay my debt ; and, let me add, I am most 
desirous to do So.” 

“* Another time—another time,” said Mr. Touchwood—*“ time 
enough before us, Mr. Tyrrel—besides, at Smyrna, you talked 
of a lawsuit—law is a lick-penny, Mr. Tyrrel—no counselor like 
the pound in purse.” 

“For my lawsuit,” said Tyrrel, ‘I am fully provided.” 

“‘ But have you good advice ?—Have you good advice ?” said 
Touchwood ; ‘answer me that.” 

*“T have advised with my lawyers,” answered Tyrrel, inter- 
nally vexed to find that his friend was much disposed to make 
his generosity upon the former occasion a pretext for prying 
further into his affairs now than he thought polite or convenient, 

“With your counsel learned in the law—eh, my dear boy ? 
But the advice you should take is of some traveled friend, well 
acquainted with mankind and the world—some one that has 
lived double your years, and is maybe looking out for some bare 
young fellow that he may doa little good to—one that might be 
willing to help you further than I can pretend to guess—for, as 
to your lawyer, you get just your guinea’s worth from him—not 
even so much as the baker’s bargain, thirteen to the dozen.” 

“T think I should not trouble myself to go far in search of a 
friend such as you describe,” said Tyrrel, who could not affect 
to misunderstand the senior’s drift, “when I was near Mr. 
Peregrine Touchwood ; but the truth is, my affairs are at present 
so much complicated with those of others, whose secrets I have 

-no right to! communicate, that I cannot have the advantage of 
consulting you, or any other friend. It is possible I may be 
-soon obliged to lay aside this reserve, and vindicate myself 


232 ST. RONAN’ S WELL. 


before the whole public. I will not fail, when that time shall 
arrive, to take an early opportunity of confidential communica- 
tion with you.” 

“That is right—confidential is the word—No person ever 
made a confidant of me who repented it—Think what the 
Pacha might have made of it, had he taken my advice, and cut 
through the Isthmus of Suez.—Turk and Christian, men of all 
tongues and countries, used to consult old Touchwood, frcm 
the building of a mosque down to the settling of an agzo.—But 
come—Good-night—good-night.” 

So saying, he took up his bedroom light, and extinguished 
one of those which stood on the table, nodded to Tyrrel to dis- 
charge his share of the duty imposed by Mrs. Dods with the 
same punctuality, and they withdrew to their several apartments, 
entertaining very different sentiments of each other. 

‘“‘ A troublesome, inquisitive old gentleman,” said ‘Tyrrel to 
himself; ‘°I remember him narrowly escaping the bastinado 
at Smyrna, for thrusting his advice on the Turkish cadi—and 
then I lie under a considerable obligation to him, giving him a 
sort of right to annoy me—Well, I must parry his impertinence 
as I can.’ 

“ A shy cock this Frank Tyrrel,” thought the traveler; ‘a 
very complete dodger !—But no matter—I shall wind him were 
he to double like a fox—I am resolved to make his mattets my 
own, and if / cannot carry him through, I know not who can.” 

Having formed this philanthropic resolution, Mr. Touch- 
wood threw himself into bed, which luckily declined exactly at 
the right angle, and, full of plait fis consigned him- 
self to slumber. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH. 


MEDIATION. 


——So, begone! 

We will not now be troubled with reply ; 

We offer fair, take it advisedly. 

KinG HENRY IV., Part 7. 


Ir had been the purpose of Tyrrel, by rising and breakfast- 
ing early, to avoid again meeting Mr. Touchwood, having upon 
his hands’ a matter'in which that officious gentleman’s inter- 
ference was ‘likely to’ prove troublesome.’ His character, he 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 283 


was aware, had been assailed at the Spain the most public 
manner, and in the most public manner he was. resolved to 
demand redress, conscious that whatever other important con- 
cerns had brought him to Scotland, must necessarily be post- 
poned to the vindication of his honor. He was determined, for 
this purpose, to go down to the rooms when the company was 
assembled at the breakfast hour, and had just taken his hat to 
set out, when he was interrupted by Mrs. Dods, who, announcing 
“a gentleman that was speering for him,” ushered into the 
chamber a very fashionable young man in a military surtout, 
covered with silk lace and fur, and wearing a foraging-cap; a 
dress now too familiar to be distinguished, but which at that 
time was used only by geniuses of a superior order. The 
stranger was neither handsome nor plain, but had in his appear- 


-ance a good deal of pretension, and the cool easy superiority 


which belong to high breeding. On his part, he surveyed 
Tyrrel; and, as his appearance differed, perhaps, from that for 
which the exterior of the Cleikum Inn had prepared him, he 
abated something of the air with which he had entered the 
room, and politely announced himself as Captain Jekyl, of the 
Guards (presenting, at the same time, his ticket). 

‘He presumed he spoke to Mr. Martigny?” 

“To Mr. Francis Tyrrel, sir,” replied Tyrrel, drawing him- 
self up—‘‘ Martigny was my mother’s name—I have never 
borne it.” 

“T am not here for the purpose of disputing that point, Mr. 
Tyrrel, though I am not entitled to admit what my principal’s 
information leads him to doubt.” 

“Your principal, I presume, is Sir Bingo Binks,” said 
Tyrrel. “I have not forgotten that there is an unfortunate 
affair between us.” 

““T have not the honor to know Sir Bingo Binks,” said Cap- 
tain Jekyl. “I come on the part of the Earl of Etherington.” 

Tyrrel stood silent for a moment, and then said, “1 am at 
a loss to know what the gentleman who calls himself Earl of 
Etherington can have to say to me, through the medium of 
such a messenger as yourself, Captain Jekyl. I should have 
supposed that, considering our unhappy relationship, and the 
terms on which we stand toward each other, the lawyers were 
the fitter negotiators between us.” 

“Sir,” said Captain Jekyl, ‘you are misunderstanding my 
errand. I am come on no message of hostile import from Lord 
Etherington—I am aware of the connection betwixt you, which 
would render such an office altogether contradictory to common 
sense and the laws of nature; and I assure you, I would lay 


284 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


down my life rather than be concerned in an affair so un- 
natural. I would act, if possible, as a mediator betwixt you.” 

They had hitherto remained standing. Mr. Tyrrel now 
offered his guest a seat; and, having assumed one himself, he 
broke the awkward pause which ensued by observing, “I 
should be happy, after experiencing such a long course of in- 
justice and persecution from your friend, to learn, even at this 
late period, Captain Jekyl, anything which can make me think 
better, either of him, or of his purpose toward me and toward 
others.” 

“Mr. Tyrrel,” said Captain Jekyl, “ you must allow me to 
speak with candor. There is too great a stake betwixt your 
brother and you to permit you to be friends ; but I do not see 
it is necessary that you should therefore be mortal enemies.” 

“‘T am not my brother’s enemy, Captain Jekyl,” said Tyrrel 
—‘T have never been so—His friend I cannot be, and he 
knows but too well the insurmountable barrier which his own 
conduct has placed between us.” 

‘“‘T am aware,” said Captain Jekyl, slowly and expressively, 
“generally, at least, of the particulars of your unfortunate 
disagreement.” 

“Tf so,” said Tyrrel, coloring, “you must be also aware 
with what extreme pain I feel myself compelled to enter on 
such a subject with a total stranger—a stranger, too, the friend 
and confidant of one who But I will not hurt your feelings, 
Captain Jekyl, but rather endeavor to suppress my own. In 
one word, I beg to be favored with the import of your com- 
munication, as I am obliged to go down to the Spa this morn- 
ing, in order to put to rights some matters there which concern 
me nearly.” 

‘“‘Tf you mean the cause of your absence from an appoint- 
ment with Sir Bingo Binks,” said Captain Jekyl, “the matter 
has been already completely explained. I pulled down the 
offensive placard with my own hand, and rendered myself 
responsible for your honor to any one who should presume 
to hold it in future doubt.” 

“Sir,” said Tyrrel, very much surprised, “I am obliged to. 
you for your intention, the more so as I am ignorant how I 
have merited such interference. It is not, however, quite satis- 
factory to me, because I am accustomed to be the guardian of 
my own honor.” 

“An easy task, I presume, in all cases, Mr. Tyrrel,” an- 
swered Jekyl, ‘but peculiarly so in the present, when you will 
find no one so hardy as to assail it—My interference, indeed, 
would have been unjustifiably officious, had I not been at the 


a. -. wee 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 28x 


moment undertaking a commission implying confidential inter- 
course with you. For the sake of my own character, it became 
necessary to establish yours. I know the truth of the whole 
affair from my friend, the Earl of Etherington, who ought to 
thank Heaven so long as he lives, that saved him on that occa- 
sion from the commission of a very great crime.” 

** Your friend, sir, has had, in the course of his life, much, 
to thank Heaven for, but more for which to ask God’s forgive- 
ness.” 

“JT am no divine, sir,” replied Captain Jekyl, with spirit ; 
“but I have been told that the same may be said of most men 
alive.” 

“JT, at least, cannot dispute it,’ said Tyrrel; “‘ but, to pro- 
ceed.—Have you found yourself at liberty, Captain Jekyl, to 
deliver to the public the whole particulars of a rencontre so 
singular as that which took place between your friend and 
me?” 

“T have not, sir,” said Jekyl—‘‘I judged it a matter of 
great delicacy, and which each of you had the like interest to 
preserve secret.” 

“¢ May I beg to know, then,” said Tyrrel, ‘ how it was possible 
for you to vindicate my absence from Sir Bingo’s rendezvous 
otherwise ?” 

“It was only necessary, sir, to pledge my word as. a gentle- 
man and a man of honor, characters in which I am pretty well 
known to the world, that, to my certain personal knowledge 
you were hurt in an affair with a friend of mine, the further 
particulars of which prudence required should be sunk into 
oblivion. I think no one will venture to dispute my word, or to 
require more than my assurance.—If there should be any one 
very hard of faith on the occasion, I shall find a way to satisfy 
him. In the meanwhile, your outlawry has been rescinded in 
the most honorable manner; and Sir Bingo, in consideration 
of his share in giving rise to reports so injurious to you, is 
desirous to drop all further proceedings in his original quarrel, 


and hopes the whole matter will be forgot and forgiven on all 


sides.” 

“Upon my word, Captain Jekyl,” answered Tyrrel, “ you 
lay me under the necessity of acknowledging obligation to you. 
You have cut a knot which I should have found it very difficult 
to unloose ; for I frankly confess, that, while I was determined 
not to remain under the stigma put upon me, I should have had 
great difficulty in clearing myself without mentioning circut- 
stances, which, were it only for the sake of my father’s memory, 


286 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


should be buried in eternal oblivion. I hope your friend feels 
no continued inconvenience from his hurt?” 

“ His lordship is neariy quite recovered,” said Jekyl. 

** And I trust he did me the justice to own, that, so far as 
my will was concerned, I am totally guiltless of the purpose of 
hurting him?” . 

“He does you full-justice in that and everything else,” re- 
plied Jekyl; “ regrets the impetuosity of his own temper, and 
is determined to be on his guard against it in future.” 

“ That,” said Tyrrel, ‘fis so far well ; and now, may I ask 
once more, what communication you have to make to me on 
the part of your friend ?—Were it from any one but him, whom 
I have found so uniformly false and treacherous, your own fair- 
ness and candor would induce me to hope that this unnatural 
quarrel might be in some sort ended by your mediation.” 

“T then proceed, sir, under more favorable auspices than I 
expected,” said Captain Jekyl, ‘ to enter on my commission.— 
You are about to commence a lawsuit, Mr. Tyrrel, if Fame does 
not wrong you, for the purpose of depriving your brother of his 
estate and title.” 

“ The case is not fairly stated, Captain Jekyl,” replied 
Tyrrel ; “ I commence a lawsuit, when I do commence it, for 
the sake of ascertaining my own just rights.” 

“Tt comes to the same thing eventually,” said the me- 
diator; ‘‘ I am not called upon to decide upon the justice of 
your claims, but they are, you will allow, newly started. The 
late Countess of Etherington died in possession—open and un- 
doubted possession—of her rank in society.” 

‘‘Tf she had no real claim to it, sir,’ replied Tyrrel, “ she 
had more than justice who enjoyed it so long ; and the injured 
lady whose claims were postponed, had just so much less.— 
But this is no point for you and me to discuss between us—it 
must be tried elsewhere.” 

‘‘ Proofs, sir, of the strongest kind, will be necessary to over- 
throw a right so well established in public opinion as that of 
the present possessor of the title of Etherington.” 

Tyrrel took a paper from his pocket-book, and, handing it to 
Captain Jekyl, only answered, “ I have no thoughts of asking 
you to give up the cause of your friend; but methinks the 
eens of which I give you a list, may shake your opinion 
of it.” 

Captain Jekyl read, muttering to himself, “ ‘ Certificate of 
marriage, by the Rev. Zadock Kemp, chaplain to the British Em- 
bassy at Paris, between Marie de Bellroche, Comtesse de Mar- 
tigny, and the Right Honorable John Lord Oakendale——Letters be- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 287 


tween John Earl of Etherington and his lady, under the title of 
Madame de Martigny—Certificate of baptism— Declaration of the 
Larl of Etherington on his deathbed.—Al\l\ this is very well— 
but may I ask you, Mr. Tyrrel, if it is really your purpose to go 
to extremity with your brother ?”’ 

“ He has forgot that he is one—he has lifted his hand against 
my life.” 

“You have shed his blood—twice shed it,” said Jekyl, “ the 
world will not ask which brother gave the offence, but which 
received, which inflicted, the severest wound.” 

“ Your friend has inflicted one on me, sir,” said Tyrrel, 
* that will bleed while I have the power of memory.” 


“ Tunderstand you, sir,” said Captain Jekyl; ‘ you mean 
the affair of Miss Mowbray ?” 
¢ Spare me on that subject, sir!” said Tyrrel. ‘ Hitherto I 


have disputed my most important rights—rights which involved 
my rank in society, my fortune, the honor of my mother, with 
something like composure; but do not say more on the. topic 
you have touched upon, unless you would have before: you a 
madman !—TIs it possible for you, sir, to have heard even the 
outline of this story, and to imagine that I can. ever reflect on 
the cold-blooded and most inhuman stratagem, which this friend 
of yours prepared for two. unfortunates, without ” He 
started up, and walked impetuously to and fro. Since the 
Fiend himself interrupted the happiness of perfect innocence, 
there was never such an act of treachery—never such schemes 
of happiness destroyed—never such inevitable misery prepared 
for two wretches who had the idiocy to repose perfect confidence 
in him !—Had there been passion in his conduct, it had: been 
the act of a man—a wicked man, indeed, but still a human 
creature, acting under the influence of human feelings—but his 
was the deed of a calm, cold, calculating demon, actuated by 
the basest and most sordid motives of self-interest, joined, as I 
firmly believe, to an early and inveterate hatred of one whose 
claims he considered at variance with his own.” 

“ T am sorry to see you in such a temper,” said Captain Jekyl, 
calmly; ‘“‘ Lord Etherington, I trust, acted on very different 
motives than those you impute to him ; and if you will but listen 
to me, perhaps something may be struck out which may accom- 
modate these unhappy disputes.” 

“Sir,” said Tyrrel, sitting down again, “I willlisten to you 
with calmness, as I would. remain calm under the probe of a 
surgeon tenting a festered wound. But when you touch me to 
the quick, when you prick the very nerve, you cannot expect 
me to endure without wincing.” 


288 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“‘T will endeavor, then, to be as brief in the operation as I 
can,” replied Captain Jekyl, who possessed the advantage of 
the most admirable composure during the whole conference. 
““T conclude, Mr. Tyrrel, that the peace, happiness, and honor 
of Miss Mowbray, are dear to you?” 

‘Who dare impeach her honor ?” said Tyrrel, fiercely ; then 
checking himself, added in a more moderate tone, but one of 
deep feeling, “They are dear to me, sir, as my eyesight.” 

“‘ My friend holds them in equal regard,” said the Captain ; 
“And has come to the resolution of doing her the most ample 
justice.” 

“He can do her justice no otherwise, than by ceasing to 
haunt this neighborhood, to think, to speak, even to dream of 
her.” 

“ Lord Etherington thinks otherwise,” said Captain Jekyl; 
“he believes that if Miss Mowbray has sustained any wrong at 
his hands, which, of course, I am not called upon to admit, it 
will be best repaired by the offer to share with her his title, his 
rank, and his fortune.” 

“ His title, rank, and fortune, sir, are as much a falsehood 
as he is himself,” said Tyrrel, with violence.—‘‘ Marry Clara 
Mowbray ? never!” 

“‘ My friend’s fortune, you will observe,” replied Jekyl, “ does 
not rest entirely upon the event of the lawsuit with which you, 
Mr. Tyrrel, now threaten him.—Deprive him, if you can, of the 
Oakendale estate, he has still a large patrimony by his mother; 
and besides, as to his marriage with Clara Mowbray, he con- 
ceives, that unless it should be the lady’s wish to have the 
ceremony repeated, to which he is most desirous to defer his 
own opinion, they have only to declare that it has already 
passed between them.” 

“A trick, sir!” said Tyrrel, ‘a vile infamous trick ! of which 
the lowest wretch in Newgate would be ashamed—the imposi- 
tion of one person for another.” 

“Of that, Mr. Tyrrel, I have seen no evidence whatever. 
The clergyman’s certificate is clear—Francis Tyrrel is united 
to Clara Mowbray in the holy bands of wedlock—such is the 
tenor—there is a copy—nay, stop one instant, if you please, 
sir. You say there was an imposition in the case—I have no 
doubt but you speak what you believe, and that Miss Mowbray 
told you. She was surprised—forced in some measure from 
the husband she had just married—ashamed to meet her former 
lover, to whom, doubtless, she had made many a vow of love, 
and ne’er a true one—what wonder that, unsupported by her 
bridegroom, she should have changed her tone, and thrown all 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 289 


the blame of her own inconstancy on the absent swain ?—A 
woman, at a pinch so critical, will make the most improbable 
excuse, rather than be found guilty on her own confession.” 

“There must be no jesting in this case,” said Tyrrel, his 
cheek becoming pale, and his voice altered with passion. 

“Tam quite serious, sir,” replied Jekyl; “‘and there is no 
law court in Britain that would take the lady’s word—all she 
has to offer, and that in her own cause—against a whole body 
of evidence, direct and circumstantial, showing that she was 
by her own free consent married to the gentleman who now 
claims her hand.—Forgive me, sir—I see you are much agitated 
—I do not mean to dispute your right of believing what you 
think is most creditable—I only use the freedom of pointing out 
to you the impression which the evidence is likely to make on 
the minds of indifferent persons.” 

“Your friend,” answered ‘Tyrrel, affecting a composure 
which, however, he was far from possessing, ‘ may think by 
such arguments to screen his villainy ; but it cannot avail him 
—the truth is known to Heaven—it is known to me—and there 
is, besides, one indifferent witness upon earth, who can testify 
that the most abominable imposition was practiced on Miss 
_ Mowbray.” 

‘You mean her cousin—Hannah Irwin, I think, is her 
name,” answered Jekyl; “you see I am fully acquainted with 
all the circumstances of the case. But where is Hannah Irwin 
to be found ? ” 

“* She will appear, doubtless, in Heaven’s good time, and to 
the confusion of him who now imagines the only witness of his 
treachery—the only one who could tell the truth of this com- 
plicated mystery—either no longer lives, or, at least, cannot be 
brought forward against him, to the ruin of his schemes. Yes, 
sir, that slight observation of yours has more than explained to 
me why your friend, or to call him by his true name, Mr. Valen- 
tine Bulmer, has not commenced his machinations sooner, and 
also why he has commenced them now. He thinks himself 
certain that Hannah Irwin is not now in Britain, or to be pro- 
duced in a court of justice—he may find himself mistaken.” 

“My friend seems perfectly confident of the issue of his 
cause,” answered Jekyl; “but, for the lady’s sake, he is most 
unwilling to prosecute a suit which must be attended with so 
many circumstances of painful exposure.” 

“Exposure, indeed!” answered Tyrrel; “thanks to the 
traitor who laid a mine so fearful, and who now affects to be 
reluctant to fire it—-Oh! how I am bound to curse that affinity 
that restrains my hands! I would be content to be the mean- 


290 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


est and vilest of society, for one hour of vengeance on this 
unexampled hypocrite !—One thing is certain, sir—your friend 
will have no living victim. His persecution will kill Clara 
Mowbray, and fill up the cup of his crimes with the murder of 
one of the sweetest———I shall grow a woman if I say more 
on the subject!” 

“My friend,” said Jekyl, “since you like best to have him 
so defined, is as desirous as you can be to spare the lady’s feel- 
ings; and with that view, not reverting to former passages, he 
has laid before her brother a proposal of alliance, with which 
Mr, Mowbray is highly pleased.” 

“Ha! said Tyrrel, starting—‘ And the lady ?”’— 

“And the lady so far proved favorable, as to consent that 
Lord Etherington shall visit Shaws Castle.” 

“Her consent must have been extorted!” exclaimed 
Tyrrel, 

‘It was given voluntarily,” said Jekyl, ‘‘as I am led to un- 
derstand; unless, perhaps, in so far as the desire to veil these 
very unpleasing transactions may have operated, I think natu- 
rally enough, to induce her to sink them in eternal secrecy, by 
accepting Lord Etherington’s hand.—lI see, sir, I give you 
pain, and am sorry for it.—I have no title to call upon you for 
any exertion of generosity ; but should such be Miss Mowbray’s 
sentiments, is it too much to expect of you, that you will not 
compromise the lady’s honor by insisting upon former, claims, 
and opening up disreputable transactions so long past?” 

‘ “Captain Jeky!l,” said Tyrrel solemnly, “I have no claims. 
Whatever I might have had were canceled by the act of 
treachery through which your friend endeavored too success- 
fully to supplant me. Were Clara Mowbray as free from her 
pretended marriage as law could pronounce her, still with me 
—wmie, at least of all men in the world—the obstacle must ever 
remain, that the nuptial benediction has been pronounced over 
her and the man whom I must for once call. drother.”—He 
stopped at that word, as if it had cost him agony to pronounce 
it, and then resumed :—‘“ No, sir, I have no views of personal 
advantage in this matter—they have been long annihilated— 
But I will not permit Clara Mowbray to become the wife of a 
villain—I will watch over her with thoughts as spotless as those 
of her guardian angel. I have been the cause of all the evil 
she has sustained—I first persuaded her to quit the path of duty 
—I, of all men who live, am bound to protect her from the misery 
—from the guilt which must attach to her as this man’s wife. I 
will never believe that she wishes it—I will never believe that, 
in calm mind and sober reason, she can be brought to listen to 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 291 


such a guilty proposal.—But her mind—alas !—is not of the 
firm texture it once could boast; and your friend knows well 
how to press on the spring of every passion that can agitate and 
alarmher. ‘Threats of exposure may extort her consent to this 
most unfitting match, if they do not indeed drive her to suicide, 
which I think the most likely termination. I will, therefore, 
be strong where she is weak.—Your friend, sir, must at least 
strip his proposals of their fine gilding. I will satisfy Mr. Mow- 
bray of St. Ronan’s of his false pretences, both to rank and 
fortune; and I rather think he will protect his sister against 
the claim of a needy profligate, though he might be dazzled 
with the alliance of a wealthy peer.” 

“Your cause, sir, is not yet won,” answered Jekyl; “ and 
when it is, your brother will retain property enough to entitle 
him to marry a greater match than Miss Mowbray, besides the 
large state of Nettlewood, to which that alliance must give him 
right. But I would wish to make some accommodation between 

ou, if it were possible. You profess, Mr. Tyrrel, to lay aside 
all selfish wishes and views in this matter, and to look entirely 
to Miss Mowbray’s safety and happiness ?”’ 

“ Such, upon my honor, is the exclusive purpose of my in- 
terference—I would give all Iam worth to procure her an hour 
of quiet—for happiness she will never know again.” 

“ Your anticipations of Miss Mowbray’s distress,” answered 
Jekyl, “are, I understand, founded upon the character of my 
friend. You think him a man of light principle, and because 
he overreached you in a juvenile intrigue, you conclude that 
now, in his more steady and advanced years, the happiness of 
the lady in whom you are so much interested ought not to be 
trusted to him?” 

“There may be other grounds,” said Tyrrel hastily ; “ but 
you may argue upon those you have named, as sufficient to 
warrant my interference.” 

*¢ How, then, if I should propose some accommodation of 
this nature? Lord Etherington does not pretend to the ardor 
of a passionate lover. He lives much in the world, and has no 
desire to quitit. Miss Mowbray’s healthis delicate—her spirits 
variable—and retirement would most probably be her choice— 
Suppose—I am barely putting a supposition—suppose that a 
marriage between two persons socircumstanced were rendered 
neccessary or advantageous to both—suppose that such a mar- 
riage were to secure to one party a large estate—were to insure 
the other against all the consequences of an unpleasant exposure 
—still, both ends might be obtained by the mere ceremony of 
Marriage passing between them, There might be a previous 


b] 


292 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


contract of separation, with suitable provisions for the lady, and 
stipulations, by which the husband should renounce all claim 
to her society. Such things happen every season, if not on the 
very marriage-day, yet before the honeymoon is over. Wealth 
and freedom would be the lady’s, and as much rank as you, sir, 
supposing your claims just, may think proper to leave them.” 

There was a long pause, during which Tyrrel underwent 
many changes of countenance, which Jekyl watched carefully, 
without pressing him for an answer. At length he replied, 
“There is much in your proposal, Captain Jekyl, which I might 
be tempted to accede to, as one manner of unloosing this Gordian 
knot, and a compromise by which Miss Mowbray’s future tran- 
quility would be in some degree provided for. But I would 
rather trust a fanged adder than your friend, unless I saw him 
fettered by the strongest ties of interest. Besides, I am certain 
the unliappy lady could never survive the being connected with 
him in this manner though but for the single moment when they 
should appear together at the altar. There are other objec- 
tions ’”?—— 

He checked himself, paused, and then proceeded in a calm 
and self-possessed tone. ‘ You think, perhaps, even yet, that 
I have some selfish and interested views in this business; and 
probably you may feel yourself entitled to entertain the same 
suspicion toward me which I avowedly harborrespecting every 
proposition which originates with your friend.—I cannot help it 
—I can but meet these disadvantageous impressions with plain 
dealing and honesty ; and it is in the spirit of both that I make 
a proposition to you.—Your friend is attached to rank, fortune, 
and worldly advantages, in the usual proportion, at least, in 
which they are pursued by men of the world—this you must 
admit, and I will not offend you by supposing more.” 

‘‘T know few people who do not desire such advantages,” 
answered Captain Jekyl, “ and I frankly own, that he affects 
no particular degree of philosophic indifference respecting 
them.” 

“ Be it so,” answered Tyrrel. ‘“ Indeed, the proposal you 
have just made indicates that his pretended claim on this young 
lady’s hand ‘is entirely, or almost entirely, dictated by motives 
of interest, since you are of opinion that he would be contented 
to separate from her society on the very marriage-day, provided 
that, in doing so, he was assured of the Nettlewood property,” 

“My proposition was unauthorized by my principal,” an- 
swered Jekyl, “but it is needless to deny, that its very tenor 
implies an idea, on my part, that Lord Etherington is no pas- 
sionate lover.” 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 293 


“Well then,” answered Tyrrel. ‘Consider, sir, and let 
him consider well, that the estate and rank he now assumes 
depend upon my will and pleasure—that if I prosecute the 
claims of which that scroll makes you aware, he must descend 
from the rank of an earl into that of a commoner, stripped of 
by much the better half of his fortune—a diminution which 
would be far from compensated by the estate of Nettlewood, 
even if he could obtain it, which could only be by means of a 
lawsuit, precarious in the issue, and most dishonorable in its 
very essence.” 

“Weil, sir,’ replied Jekyl, ““I perceive your argument— 
What is your proposal ?”’ 

“That I will abstain from prosecuting my claim on those 
honors and that property—that I will leave Valentine Bulmer 
in possession of his usurped title and ill-deserved wealth—that 
I will bind myself under the strongest penalties never to dis- 
turb his possession of the Earldom of Etherington, and estates 
belonging to it—on condition that he allows the woman, whose 
peace of mind he has ruined forever, to walk through the world 
in her wretchedness, undisturbed either by his marriage-suit, or 
by any claim founded upon ,his own most treacherous conduct 
—in short, that he forbear to molest Clara Mowbray, either by 
his presence, word, letter, or through the intervention of a third 
party, and be to her in future as if he did not exist.” 

“This is a singular offer,” said the Captain; ‘may I ask if 
you are serious in making it ?” 

“T am neither surprised nor offended at the question,” said 
Tyrrel. “Iam a man, sir, like others, and affect no superiority 
to that which all men desire the possession of—a certain con- 
sideration and station in society. I am no romantic fool, to 
undervalue the sacrifice I am about to make. I renounce a 
rank, which is and ought to be the more valuable to me, be- 
cause it involves (he blushed as he spoke) the fame of an 
honored mother—because, in failing to claim it, I disobey the 
commands of a dying father, who wished that by doing so I 
should declare to the world the penitence which hurried him 
perhaps to the grave, and the making which public he con- 
sidered might be some atonement for his errors. From an 
honored place in the land, I descend voluntarily to become a 
nameless exile ; for, once certain that Clara Mowbray’s peace 
is assured, Britain no longer holds me. All this I do, sir, not 
in any idle strain of overheated feeling, but seeing, and know- 
ing, and dearly valuing, every advantage which I renounce— 
yet I do it, and do it willingly, rather than be the cause of 


294 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


further evil to one, on whom I have already brought too—too 
much.” 

His voice, in spite of his exertions, faltered as he concluded 
the sentence, and a big drop, which rose in his eye, required 
him for the moment to turn toward the window. ~ 

“T am ashamed of this childishness,” he said, turning again 
to Captain Jekyl; “if it excites your ridicule, sir, let it be at 
least a proof of my sincerity.” 

‘‘T am far from entertaining such sentiments,” said Jeky], 
respectfully—for, in a long train of fashionable follies, his 
heart had not been utterly hardened—‘ very far indeed. ‘To 
a proposal so singular as yours, | cannot be expected to an- 
swer—except thus far—the character of the peerage is, I be- 
lieve, indelible, and cannot be resigned or assumed at pleasure. 
If you are really Earl of Etherington, I cannot see how your 
resigning the right may avail my friend.” 

Vou, sir, it might not avail,” said Tyrrel, gravely, “ because 
you, perhaps, might scorn to exercise a right, or hold a title, 
that was not legally yours. But your friend will have no such 
compunctious visitings. If he can act the Earl to the eye of 
the world, he has already shown that his honor and conscience 
will be easily satisfied.” 

““May I take a copy of the memorandum containing this 
list of documents,” said Captain Jekyl, “ for the information of 
my constituent ?” 

“The paper is at your pleasure, sir,” replied Tyrrel ; ‘it is 
itself but a. copy. But, Captain Jekyl,” he added, with a sar- 
castic expression, ‘‘is, it would seem, but imperfectly let into 
his friend’s confidence—he may be assured his principal is com- 
pletely acquainted with the contents of this paper, and has accu- 
rate copies of the-deéds to which it refers.” 

“I think it scarce possible,” said Jekyl, angrily. 

“Possible and certain!” answered Tyrrel. “ My father, 
shortly preceeding his death, sent me—with a most affecting con- 
fession of his errors—this list of papers, and acquainted me 
that he had made a similar communication to your friend. That 
he did so I have no doubt, however Mr. Bulmer may have 
thought proper to disguise the circumstance in communication 
with you. One circumstance, among others, stamps at once 
his character, and confirms me of the danger he apprehended by 
my return to Britain. He found means, through a scoundrel- 
ly agent, who had made me the usual remittances from my 
father while alive, to withhold those which were necessary for 
fi hecavh from the Levant, and I was obliged to borrow from 
a friend, 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 298 


“Indeed?” replied Jekyl. “It is the first time I have 
heard of these papers—May I inquire where the originals are, 
and in whose custody?” 

“I was in the East,” answered Tyrrel, ‘ during my father’s 
last illness, and these papers were by him deposited with a 
respectable commercial house, with which he was connected. 
‘They were enclosed in a cover directed to me, and that again 
in an envelope, addressed to the principal person in their 
firm.” 

“You must be sensible,” said Captain Jekyl, “that I can 
scarcely decide on the extraordinary offer which you have been 
pleased to make, of resigning the claim founded on these 
documents, unless I had a previous opportunity of examining 
them.” 

“You shall have that opportunity—I will write to have 
them sent down by the post—they lie but in small compass.” 

“This, then,” said the Captain, ‘‘sums up all that can be 
said at present. Supposing these proofs to be of unexception- 
able authenticity, I certainly would advise my friend Ethering- 
ton to put to sleep a claim so important as yours, even at the 
expense of resigning his matrimonial speculation—I presume 
you design to abide by your offer?” 

“Tam not in the habit of altering my mind—still less of 
retracting my word,” said ‘Tyrrel, somewhat haughtily. 

“We part friends, I hope?” said Jekyl, rising, and taking 
his leave. 

“Not enemies, certainly, Captain Jekyl. I will own to you 
I owe you my thanks, for extricating me from that foolish affair 
at the Well—nothing could have put me to more inconvenience 
than the necessity of following to extremity a frivolous quarrel 
at the present moment.” 

“You will come down among us, then?” said Jekyl. 

“TI certainly shall not wish to appear to hide myself,” 
answered Tyrrel ; ‘‘it is acircumstance might be turned against 
me—there is a party who will avail himself of every advan- 
tage. I have but one path, Captain Jekyl—that of truth and 
honor.” 

Captain Jekyl bowed, and took his leave. So soon as he 
was gone, Tyrrel locked the door of the apartment, and 
drawing from his bosom a portrait, gazed on it with a mixture 
of sorrow and tenderness, until the tears dropped from his 
eyes. 

i It was the picture of Clara Mowbray, such as he had known 
her in the days of their youthful love, and taken by himself, 
whose early turn for painting had already developed itself, 


296 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


The features of the blooming girl might be yet traced in the 
fine countenance of the more matured original. But what was 
now become of the glow which had shaded her cheek ?—what 
of the arch, yet subdued pleasantry, which lurked in the eye? 
—what of the joyous content, which composed every feature 
to the expression of an Euphrosyne ?—Alas! these were long 
fled ! Sorrow had laid his hand upon her—the purple light of 
youth was quenched—the glance of innocent gayety was 
exchanged for looks now moody with ill-concealed care, now 
animated by a spirit of reckless and satirical observation. 

“What a wreck! what a wreck!” exclaimed Tyrrel; “and 
all of one wretch’s making.—Can I put the last hand to the 
work, and be her murderer outright? I cannot—I cannot! 
I will be strong in the resolve I have formed—I will sacrifice 
all—rank—station—fortune—and fame. Revenge !—Revenge 
itself, the last good left me—revenge itself 1 will sacrifice 
to obtain her such tranquility as she may be yet capable to 
enjoy.” 

In this resolution he sat down, and wrote a letter to the 
commercial house with whom the document of his birth, and 
other relative papers, were deposited, requesting that the packet 
containing them should be forwarded to him through the post- 
office. 

Tyrrel was neither unambitious, nor without those senti- 
ments respecting personal consideration, which are usually uni- 
ted with deep feeling and an ardent mind. It was with a 
trembling hand and a watery eye, but with a heart firmly re- 
solved, that he sealed and despatched the letter ; a step toward 
the resignation, in favor of his mortal enemy, of that rank and 
condition in life, which was his own by right of inheritance, but’ 
had so long hung in doubt betwixt them. 


CHAPTER THIRTIETH. 


INTRUSION. 


J 
Pa 


By my troth, I will go with thee to the lane’s-end!—I am a kind of 
burr—lI shall stick. 


MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 


It was now far advanced in autumn. The dew lay thick on the 
long grass, where it was touched by the sun; but where the 
sward lay in shadow, it was covered with hoar frost, and crisped 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 297 


under Jekyl’s foot, as he returned through the woods of St. 
Ronan’s. ‘The leaves of the ash-tree detached themselves from 
the branches, and, without an air of wind, fell spontaneously on 
the path. The mists still lay lazily upon the heights, and the 
huge old tower of St. Ronan’s was entirely shrouded with vapor, 
except where a sunbeam, struggling with the mist, penetrated 
into its wreath so far as to show a projecting turret upon one 
of the angles of the old fortress, which, long a favorite haunt 
of the raven, was popularly called the Corbie’s Tower. Beneath, 
the scene was open and lightsome, and the robin redbreast was 
chirping his best, to atone for the absence of all other choristers. 
The fine foliage of autumn was seen in many a glade, running 
up the sides of each little ravine, russet-hued and golden-specked, 
and tinged frequently with the red hues of the mountain-ash; 
while here and there a huge old fir, the native growth of the 
soil, flung his broad shadow over the rest of the trees, and 
seemed to exult in the permanence of his dusky livery over 
the more showy but transitory brilliance by which he was 
surrounded. 

Such is the scene, which, so often described in prose and in 
poetry, yet seldom loses its effect upon the year or upon the eye, 
and through which we wander with a strain of mind congenial 
to the decline of the year. There are few who do not feel the 
impression ; and even Jekyl, though bred to far different pur- 
suits than those most favorable to such contemplation, relaxed 
his pace to admire the uncommon beauty of the landscape. 

Perhaps, also, he was in no hurry to rejoin the Earl of Ether- 
ington, toward whose service he felt himself more disinclined 
since his interview with Tyrrel. It was clear that that noble- 
man had not fully reposed in his friend the confidence promised ; 
he had not made him aware of the existence of those important 
documents of proof, on which the whole fate of his negotiation 
appeared now to hinge, and in so far had deceived him. Yet, 
when he pulled from his pocket and re-read Lord Etherington’s 
explanatory letter, Jekyl could not help being more sensible than 
he had been on the first perusal, how much the present possessor 
of that title felt alarmed at his brother’s claims; and he had 
some compassion for the natural feeling that must have rendered 
him shy of communicating at once the very worst view of his 
case, even to his most confidential friend. Upon the whole, he 
remembered that Lord Etherington had been his benefactor to 
an unusual extent; that, in return, he had promised the young 
nobleman his active and devoted assistance in extricating him 
from the difficulties with which he seemed at present surrounded 3 
that, in quality of his confident, he had become acquainted with 


298 ST. RONANS WELL, 


the most secret transactions of his life ; and that it could only be 
some very strong cause indeed, which could justify breaking off 
from him at this moment. Yet he could not help wishing either 
that his own obligations had been less, his friend’s cause better, 
or, at least, the friend himself more worthy of assistance. 

‘A beautiful morning, sir, for such a foggy, d—d climate as 
this,’ said a voice close by Jekyl’s ear, which made him at once 
start out of his contemplation. He turned half round, and beside 
him stood our honest friend ouchwood, his throat muffled in 
his large Indian handkerchief, huge gouty shoes thrust upon ‘his 
feet, his bob-wig well powdered, and the gold-headed cane in 
his hand, carried upright as a sergeant’s halberd. One glance 
of contemptuous survey entitled Jekyl, according to his modish 
ideas, to rank the old gentleman as a regular-built quiz, and to 
treat him as the young gentleman of his Majesty’s Guards think 
themselves entitled to use every unfashionable variety of the 
human species. A slight inclination of a bow, and a very cold 
““You have the advantage of me, sir,’ dropped as it were un- 
consciously from his tongue, were meant to repress the old gen- 
tleman’s advances, and moderate his ambition to be hail fellow 
well met with his betters. But Mr. Touchwood was callous to 
the intended rebuke ; he had lived too much at large upon the 
world, and was far too confident of his own merits, to takea 
repulse easily, or to permit his modesty to interfere with any 
purpose which he had formed. 

‘“‘ Advantage of you, sir?” he replied ; “I have lived too 
long in the world not to keep all the advantages I have, and 
get all I can—and I reckon it one that I have overtaken you, 
and shall have the pleasure of your company to the Well.” 

“* J should but interrupt your worthier meditations, sir,” said 
the other ; “ besides, I am a modest young man, and think 
myself fit for no better company than my own—moreover, I 
walk slow—very slow.—Good morning to you, Mr. A~—A—I 
believe my treacherous memory has let slip your name, sir.” 

‘“ My name !—Why, your memory must have been like Pat 
Murtough’s greyhound, that let the hare go before he caught it. 
You never heard my name in your life. TTouchwood is my 
name. ‘What d’ye think of it, now you know it ?” 

‘““T am really no connoisseur in surnames,” answered Jeky] ; 
“and it is quite the same to me whether you call yourself 
Touchwood or Touchstone. Don’t let me keep you from walk- 
ing on, sir. You will find breakfast far advanced at the Well, 
sir, and your walk has probably given you an appetite.” 

‘Which will serve me to luncheon-time, I promise you,” 
said Touchwood ; “ I always drink my coffee as soon as my feet 


ST. RONAN’S WELL; 299 


are in my pabouches—it’s the way all over the East. Never 
trust my breakfast to their scalding milk-and-water at the Well, 
I assure you ; and for walking slow, I have had a touch of the 
gout.” 

“‘ Have you ?”’ said Jekyl ; “ I am sorry for that ; because, 
if you have no mind to breakfast, I have—and so, Mr. ‘Touch- 
stone, good-morrow to you.” 

But, although the young soldier went off at double quick 
time, his pertinacious attendant kept close by his side, display- 
ing an activity which seemed inconsistent with his make and 
his years, and talking away the whole time, so as to show that 
his lungs were not in the least degree incommoded by the 
unusual rapidity of motion. 

“ Nay, young gentleman, if you are for a good smart walk, 
Iam for you, and the gout may be d—d. You are a lucky 
fellow to have youth on your side ; but yet, so far as between 
the Aultoun and the Well, I think I could walk you for your - 
sum, barring running—all heel and toe—equal weight, and I 
would match Barclay himself for a mile,” 

“ Upon my word, you are a gay old gentleman!” said Jekyl, 
relaxing his pace ; “and if we must be tellow-travelers, though 
I can see no great occasion for it, I must even shorten sail for 

ou. ? 

: So saying, and as if another means of deliverance had 
occurred to him, he slackened his pace, took out a morocco case 
of cigars, and, lighting one with his érzguez, said, while he walked 
on, and bestowed as much of its fragrance as he could upon the 
face of his intrusive companion, ‘“ Vergeben sie, mein Herr— 
ich bin erzogen in kaiserlicher Dienst—muss rauchen ein klein 
wenig.” * 

“ Rauchen sie immer fort,” said Touchwood, producing a 
huge meerschaum, which, suspended by a chain from his’ neck, 
lurked in the bosom of his coat, “ habe auch mein Pfeifchen— 
Sehen sie den lieben Topf ! n+ and he began to return the 
smoke, if not the fire, of his companion, in full volumes, and 
with interest. 

“The devil take the twaddle,” said Jekyl to himself; “ he 
is too old and too fat to be treated after the manner of Professor 
Jackson ; and, on my life, I.cannot tell what to make of him. 
He isa residenter too—I must tip him the cold shoulder, or he 
will be pestering me eternally.” 


; eye me, sir, I was bred in the Imperial service, and must smoke 
a little 

t+ Smoke as much as you please ; I have got my pipe too,—See what 4 
beautiful head | 


300 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


Accordingly, he walked on, sucking his cigar, and apparently 
in as abstracted a mood as Mr. Cargill himself, without paying 
the least attention to Touchwood, who, nevertheless, continued 
talking, as if he had been addressing the most attentive listener 
in Scotland, whether it were the favorite nephew of a cross, 
old, rich bachelor, or the aide-de-camp of some old rusty firelock 
of a general, who tells stories of the American war. 

‘¢ And so, sir, I can put up with any companion at a pinch, 
for I have traveled in all sort of ways, from a caravan down to 
a carrier’s cart ; but the best society is the best everywhere ; 
and I am happy I have fallen in with a gentleman who suits 
me so well as you.—That grave, steady attention of yours 
reminds me of Elfi Bey—you might talk to him in English, or 
anything he understood least of—you might have read Aris- 
totle to Elfi, and not a muscle would he stir—give him his pipe, 
and he would sit on his cushion with a listening air, as if he 
took in every word of what you said.” 

Captain Jekyl threw away the remnant of his cigar, with a 
little movement of pettishness, and began to whistle an opera 
air. 

‘There again, now !—That is just so like the Marquis of 
Roccombole, another dear friend of mine, that whistles all the 
time you talk to him—He says he learnt it in the Reign of 
Terror, when a man was glad to whistle, to show his throat was 
whole. And, talking of great folk, what do you think of this 
affair between Lord Etherington and his brother, or cousin, as 
some folk call him ? ” 

Jekyl absolutely started at the question ; a degree of emo- 
tion, which, had it been witnessed by any of ‘his fashionable 
friends, would for ever have ruined his pretensions to rank in’ 
their first order. 

“What affair?” he asked, so soon as he could command a 
certain degree of composure. 

“Why, you know the news surely? Francis Tyrrel, whom 
all the company voted a coward the other day, turns out as 
brave a fellow as any of us ; for, instead of having run away to 
avoid having his own throat cut by Sir Bingo Binks, he was at 
the very moment engaged in a gallant attempt to murder his 
elder brother, or his more lawful brother, or his cousin, or some 
such near relation.” 

“T believe you are misinformed, sir,” said Jekyl, dryly, and 
then resumed, as deftly as he could, his proper character of a 
pococurante. 

‘“‘T am told,” continued Touchwood, ‘‘one Jekyl acted as a 
second to them both on the occasion—a proper fellow, sir—one 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 301 


of those fine gentlemen whom we pay for polishing the pave- 
ment in Bond Street, and looking at a thick shoe and a pair of 
worsted stockings, as if the wearer were none of their pay- 
masters. However, I believe the Commander-in-chief is like 
to discard him when he hears what has happened.” 

“Sir!” said Jekyl, fiercely—then, recollecting the folly of 
being angry with an original of his companion’s description, he 
proceeded more coolly, “‘ You are misinformed—Captain Jeky1 
knew nothing of any such matter as you refer to—you talk ofa 
person you know nothing of—Captain Jekyl is” (Here he 
stopped a little, scandalized, perhaps, at the very idea of vindi- 
cating himself to such a personage from such a charge.) 

“ Ay, ay,” said the traveler, filling up the chasm in his own 
way, “he is not worth our talking of, certainly—but I believe 
he knew as much of the matter as either you or I do, for all 
that.” | 

“Sir, this is either a very great mistake, or wilful imperti- 
nence,” answered the officer. ‘‘ However absurd or intrusive 
you may be, I cannot allow you, either in ignorance or inciv- 
ility, to use the name of Captain Jekyl with disrespect.—I am 
Captain Jeky]l, sir.” 

“Very like, very like,” said Touchwood, with the most pro- 
voking indifference ; “I guessed as much before.” 

“Then, sir, you may guess what is likely to follow, when a 
gentleman hears himself unwarrantably and unjustly slander- 
ed,” replied Captain Jekyl, surprised and provoked that his 
annunciation of name and rank seemed to be treated so light- 
ly. “ I advise you, sir, not to proceed too far upon the immu- 
nities of your age and insignificance.” 

“‘T never presume further than I have good reason to think 
necessary, Captain Jekyl,” answered Touchwood, with great 
composure. “ [ am too old, as you say, for any such idiotical 
business as a duel, which no nation I know of practices but 
our silly fools of Europe—and then, as for your switch, which 
you are grasping with so much dignity, that is totally out of 
the question. Look you, young gentleman ; four-fifths of my 
life have been spent among men who do not set a man’s life at 
the value of a button on his collar—every person learns, in 
such cases, to protect himself as he can ; and whoever strikes 
me must stand to the consequences. I have always a brace of 
bull-dogs about me, which put age and youth on a level. So 
suppose me horse-whipped, and pray, at the same time, suppose 
yourself shot through the body. The same exertion of imagina- 
tion will serve for both purposes,” 


302 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


So saying, he exhibited a very handsome, highly-finished, 
and richly-mounted pair of pistols. 

‘Catch me without my tools,” said he, significantly button- 
ing his coat over the arms, which were concealed in a side- 
pocket, ingeniously contrived for that purpose. ‘I see youdo 
not know what to make of me,” he continued, in a familiar and 
confidential tone ; “ but, to tell you the truth, everybody that 
has meddled in this St. Ronan’s business is a little off the 
hooks—something of a /é¢e exadtée, in plain words, a little crazy, 
or so; and I do not affect to be much wiser than other people.” 

ff Sir, ” said Jekyl, “your manners and discourse are so un- 
precedented that I must ask your meaning plainly and decidedly 
—Do you mean to insult me, or no?” 

“No insult at all, young gentleman—all fair meaning, and 
above board—I only wished to. let you know what the world 
may say, that is all.” 

“Sir,” said Jekyl, hastily, ‘the world may tell what lies. it 
pleases; but I was not present at the rencontre between Ether- 
ington and Mr. Tyrrel—I was some hundred miles off.” 

‘There now,” said ‘Touchwood, “there was a rencontre 
between them—the very thing I wanted to know.” 

“Sir,” said Jekyl, aware too late that, in his haste to vindi- 
cate himself, he had committed his friend, ‘‘ I desire you will 
found nothing on an expression hastily used to vindicate myself 
from a false aspersion—I only meant to say, if there was an 
affair such as you talk of, I knew nothing of it.” 

‘‘ Never mind—never mind—I shall make no bad use of 
what I have learned,” said ‘Touchwood.. “Were you to eat 
your words with the best fish sauce (and that is Burgess’s), I 
have got all the information from them I wanted.” 

“You are strangely pertinacious, sir,” replied Jekyl. 

“Oh, a rock, a piece of flint for that—What I have learned 
I have learned, but I will make no bad use of it—Hark ye, 
Captain, I have no malice against your friend—perhaps the 
contrary—but he is in a bad course, sir—has kept a false 
reckoning, for as deep as he thinks himelf; and I tell you so, 
because I hold you (your finery out of the question) to be, as 
Hamlet says, indifferent honest; but, if you were not, why 
necessity is necessity ; and a man will take a Bedouin for his 
guide in the desert, whom he would not trust with an asper in 
the cultivated field ; so I think of reposing some confidence in 
you—have not made up my mind yet, though.” 

“On my word, sir, I am greatly flattered both by your 
intentions and your hesitation,” said Captain Jekyl. “You 


wie 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 303 


were pleased to say just now, that every one concerned with 
these matters was something particular.” 

*« Ay, ay—something crazy—a little mad, or so. That was 
what I said, and I can prove it.” 

“T should be glad to hear the proof,” said Jekyl—“ I hope . 
you do not except yourself.” 

“Oh! by no means,” answered Touchwood ; “I am one of 
the maddest old boys ever slept out of straw, or went loose. 
But you can put fishing questions in your turn, Captain, I see 
that—you would fain know how much, or how little, I am in 
all these secrets. Well, that is as hereafter may be. In the 
meantime, here are my proofs.—Old Scrogie Mowbray -was 
mad, to like the sound of Mowbray better than that of Scrogie; 
young Scrogie was mad, not to like it as well. The old Earl 
of Etherington was not sane when he married a French wife 
in secret, and devilish mad indeed when he married an English 
one in public. Then, for the good folk here, Mowbray of St. 
Ronan’s is cracked, when he wishes to give his sister to he 
knows not precisely whom; she is a fool not to take him, 
because she does know who he is, and what has been between 
them; and your friend is maddest of all, who seeks her under 
so heavy a penalty ;—and you and I, Captain, go mad gratis, 
for company’s sake, when we mix ourselves with such a mess 
of folly and frenzy.” 

“ Really; sir, all that you have said is an absolute riddle to 

” replied the embarrassed Jeky]. 

“Riddles may be read,” said Touchwood, nodding ; “if you 
have any desire to read mine, pray take notice, that this being 
our first interview, I have exerted myself fazre les frais de la 
conversation, as Jack Frenchman says; if you want another, 
you may come to Mrs. Dods’s at the Cleikum Inn, any day 
before Saturday, at four precisely, when you will find none of 
your half-starved, long-limbed bundles of bones, which you call — 
poultry at the table-d’héte, but a right Chitty-gong fowl—I got 
Mrs. Dods the breed from old Ben Vandewash, the Dutch 
broker—stewed to a minute, with rice and mushrooms.—If you 
can eat without a silver fork, and your appetite serves you, you 
shall be welcome—that’s all.—So, good morning to you, good 
master lieutenant, for a Captain of the Guards is but a lieuten- 
ant after all.” 

So saying, and ere Jekyl could make any answer, the old 
gentleman turned short off into a path which led to the heal- 
ing fountain, branching away from that which conducted to 
the Hotel. 

Uncertain with whom he had been holding a conversation 


304 ST: RONAN’S WELL. ‘ 


so strange, Jekyl remained looking after him, until his atten- 
tion was roused by a little boy, who crept out from an ad- 
joining thicket, with a switch in his hand, which he had been 
just cutting,—probably against regulations to the contrary 
effect made and provided, for he held himself ready to take 
cover in the copse again, in case any one were in sight who 
might be interested in chastising his delinquency. Captaiu 
Jekyl easily recognized in him one of that hopeful class of imps 
who pick up a precarious livelihood about places of public 
resort, by going errands, brushing shoes, doing the groom’s 
and coachman’s work in the stables, driving donkeys, opening 
gates, and so forth, for but one-tenth part of their time, spend- 
ing the rest in gambling, sleeping in the sun, and otherwise 
qualifying themselves to exercise the profession of thieves and 
pickpockets, either separately, or in conjunction with those of 
waiters, grooms, and postilions. The little outcast had an 
indifferent pair of pantaloons, and about half a jacket, for like 
Pentapolin with the naked arm, he went on action with his 
right shoulder bare; a third part of what had once been a 
hat covered his hair, bleached white with the sun, and his face, 
as brown as a berry, was illuminated by a pair of eyes, which, 
for spying out either peril or profit, might have rivaled those 
of the hawk.—In a word, it was the original Puck of the Shaws 
dramaticals. 

‘“Come hither, ye unhanged whelp,” said Jekyl, “‘and tell 
me if you know the old gentleman that passed down the walk 
just now—yonder he is, still in sight.” 

“Tt is the Naboab,” said the boy; ‘I could swear to his 
back among all the backs at the Waal, your honor.” 

““What do you call a Nabob, you varlet?”’ 

‘“A Naboab-—a Naboab?” answered the scout; “odd, I 
believe it is ane comes frae foreign parts, with mair siller than 
his pouches can haud, and spills it a’ through the country— 
they are as yellow as orangers, and maun hae a’ thing their ain 
gate.” 

_ “And what is this Naboab’s name, as you call him?” de- 
manded Jekyl. 

‘‘ His name is Touchwood,” said his informer, “ye may see 
him at the Waal every morning.” 

‘““T have not seen him at the ordinary.” 

“Na, na,” answered the boy; “‘he’s a queer auld cull, he 
disna frequent wi’ other folk, but lives upby at the Cleikum.— 
He gave me half-a-crown yince, and forbade me to play it awa” 
at pitch and toss.” 

‘“And you disobeyed him, of course ?” 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 305 


“Na, I didna dis-obeyed him—I played it awa’ at neevie- 
neevie-nick-nack.” 

“ Well, there is sixpence for thee ; lose it to the devil in any 
way thou think’st proper.’ 

So saying, he gave the little galopin his donative, and a 
slight rap on the pate at the same time, which sent him scour- 
ing from his presence. He himself hastened to Lord Ether- 
ington’s apartments, and, as luck would have it, found the 
Earl alone. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIRST. 
DISCUSSION, 


I will converse with iron-witted fools 

And unrespective boys—none are for me 

That look into me with suspicious eyes. 
RICHARD III. 


* How now, Jekyl!” said Lord Etherington eagerly ; “ what 
news from the enemy ?—Have you seen him?” 

“T have,” replied Jekyl. 

“And in what humor did you find him ?—In none that was 
very favorable, I dare say, for you have a baffled and perplexed 
look, that confesses a losing game—I have often warned you 
how your hang-dog look betrays you at brag—And, then, when 
you would fain brush up your courage, and put a good face on 
a bad game, your bold looks always remind me of a standard 
hoisted only half-mast high, and betraying melancholy and de- 
jection, instead of triumph and defiance.” 

“T am only holding the cards for your lordship at present,” 
answered Jekyl; “and I wish to Heaven there may be no one 
looking over the hand.” 

““ How do you mean by that?’ 

“ Why, I was beset on returning through the wood by an old 
bore, a Nabob, as they call him, and Touchwood by name.’ 

“T have seen such a quiz about,” said Lord Etherington— 
“What of him?” 

“Nothing,” answered Jekyl; “except that he seemed to 
know much more of your affairs than you would wish or are 
aware of. He smoked the truth of the rencontre betwixt 
Tyrrel and you, and what is worse—I must needs confess the 
truth—he contrived to wring out of me a sort of confirmation 
of his suspicions,” 


306 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“’Slife ! wert thou mad?” said Lord Etherington, turning 
pale; “his is the very tongue to send the story through the 
whole country—Hal, you have undone me.” 

‘“‘T hope not,” said Jekyl; “I trust in Heaven I have not! 
—His knowledge is quite general—only that there was some 
scuffle between you—Do not look so dismayed about it, or I 
will e’en go back and cut his throat to secure his secrecy.” 

“Cursed indiscretion !”” answered the Earl—“‘ how could you 
let him fix on you at all?” 

“T cannot tell,” said Jekyl—“‘ he has powers of boring 
beyond ten of the dullest of all possible doctors—stuck like a 
limpet to a rock—a perfect double of the Old Man of the Sea, 
whom I take to have been the greatest bore on record.” 

“Could you not have turned him on his back like a turtle, 
and left him there?” said Lord Etherington. 

‘¢ And had an ounce of lead in my body for my pains? No 
—no—we have already had footpad work enough—I promise 
you the old buck was armed, as if he meant to bing folks on 
the low toby.” * 

“ Well—well—but Martigny, or Tyrrel, as you call him— 
what says he?” 

“Why, Tyrrel, or Martigny, as your lordship calls him,” 
answered Jekyl, “will by no means listen to your lordship’s 
proposition. He will not consent that Miss Mowbray’s happi- 
ness shall be placed in your lordship’s keeping ; nay, it did not 
meet his approbation a bit the more, when I hinted at the 
acknowledgment of the marriage, or the repetition: of the 
ceremony, attended by an immediate separation, which I thought 
I might venture to propose.” 

“And on what grounds does he refuse so reasonable an 
accommodation ?” said Lord Etherington—‘ Does he still seek 
to marry the girl himself?” 

“IT believe he thinks the circumstances of the case render 
that impossible,” replied his confidant. 

“What ? then he would play the dog in the manger—neither 
eat nor let eat ?—He shall find himself mistaken. She has used 
me like a dog, Jekyl, since I saw you; and, by:Jove! I will 
have her, that T may break her pride, and cut him to the liver 
with the agony of seeing it.” 

“‘ Nay, but hold—hoid !” said Jekyl; ‘‘ perhaps I have some- 
thing to say on his part that may be a better compromise than 
all you could have by teasing him. He is willing to purchase 
what he calls Miss Mowbray’ s tranquility at the expense of his 


* “ Rob as a footpad,” 


ST. RONAN?S WELL. 307 


‘resignation of his claims to your father’s honors and estate ; 
and he surprised me very much, my lord, by showing me this 
list of documents, which, I am afraid, makes his success more 
than probable, if there really are such proofs in existence.” 
Lord Etherington took the paper, and seemed to read with 
much attention, while Jekyl proceeded—He has written to 
procure these evidences from the person with whom they are 
deposited.” 

“We shall see what like they are when they arrive,” said 
Lord Etherington.—‘“ They come by post, I suppose ?” 

“Yes ; and may be immediately expected,” said Jekyl. 

¢ Well—he is my brother on one side of the house, at least,” 
said Lord Etherington, “‘and I should not much like to have 
him lagged for forgery, which, I suppose, will be the end of his 
bolstering up an unsubstantial plea by fabricated documents— 
I should like to see these papers he talks of.” 

“ But, my lord,” replied Jekyl, “‘ Tyrrel’s allegation is, that 
you ave seen them ; and that copies, at least, were made out 
for you, and are in your possession—such is his averment.” 

“He lies,” answered Lord Etherington, ‘so faras he pre- 
tends I know of such papers. I consider the whole story as 
froth—foam—fudge, or whatever is most unsubstantial. It will 
prove such when the papers appear, if indeed they ever will 
appear. The whole is a bully from beginning to end; and I 
wonder at thee, Jekyl, for being so thirsty after syllabub, that 
you can swallow such whipt cream as that stuff amounts to. 
No, no—I know my advantage, and shall use it so as to make 
all their hearts bleed. As for these papers, I recollect now that 
my agent talked of copies of some manuscripts having been 
sent him, but the originals were not then forthcoming ; and I’ll 
bet the long odds that they never are—mere fabrications—If I 
thought otherwise, would I not tell you? ” 

“Certainly, I hope you would, my lord,” said Jekyl; ‘‘ for 
I see no chance of my being useful to you, unless I have the 
honor to enjoy your confidence.” 

“You do—you do, my friend,” said Etherington, shaking him 
_by the hand ; ‘f and since I must consider your present nego- 
tiation as failed; I must devise some other mode of settling 
with this mad and troublesome fellow.” 

*“No violence, my lord,” said Jekyl, once more and with 
much emphasis. 
~~ “None—none—none, By Heaven !-—Why, thou suspicious 
wretch, must I swear to quell your scruples ?—On the contrary, 
it shall not be my fault if we are not on decent terms.” 

“It would be infinitely to the advantage of both your char- 


308 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


acters if you could bring that to pass,” answered Jekyl; ‘‘and 
if you are serious in wishing it, I will endeavor to prepare Tyrrel. 
He comes to the Well or to the ordinary to-day, and it would be 
highly ridiculous to make a scene.” 

“True, true; find him out, my dear Jekyl, and persuade him 
how foolish it will be to bring our family quarrels out before 
strangers, and for their amusement. They shall see the two 
bears can meet without biting —Go—go—lI will follow you in- 
stantly—go, and remember you have my full and exclusive con- 
fidence.—Go, half-bred startling fool!” he continued, the in- 
stant Jekyl had left the room, “ with just spirits enough to 
ensure your own ruin, by hurrying you into what you are not up 
to.—But he has character in the world—is brave—and one of 
those whose countenance gives a fair face to a doubtful business. 
He is my creature, too—I have bought and paid for him, and it 
would be idle extravagance not to make use of him—But as to 
confidence—no confidence, honest Hal, beyond that which can- 
not be avoided. If I wanted a confident, here comes a better 
than thou by half—Solmes has no scruples—he will always 
give me money’s worth of zeal and secrecy for money.” 

His lordship’s valet at this moment entered the apartment, 
a grave, civil-looking man, past the middle age, with a sallow 
complexion, a dark thoughtful eye, slow, and sparing of speech, 
and sedulously attentive to all the duties of his situation. 

‘“‘ Solmes,” said Lord Etherington, and then stopped short. 

“‘ My lord ””—-There was a pause ; and when Lord Ethering- 
ton had again said, “Solmes!” and his valet had answered, 
“Your lordship,” there was a second pause; until the Earl, as 
if recollecting himself, ‘‘Oh! I remember what I wished to say 
—it was about the course of posthere. It was not very regular, 
I believe ?” 

“ Regular enough, my lord, so far as concerns this place— 
the people in the Aultoun do not get their letters in course.” 

“ And why not, Solmes?”’ said his lordship. 

“ ‘The old woman that keeps the little inn there, my lord, is 
on bad terms with the post-mistress—the one will not send for 
the letters and the other will not despatch them to the village ; 
so, betwixt them, they are sometimes lost, or mislaid, or re- 
turned to the General Post-office.” 

“I wish that may not be the case of a packet which I expect 
in a few days—it should have been here already, or, pehaps, it 
may arrive in the beginning of the week—it is from that formal 
ass, Trueman the Quaker, who addresses me by my Christian 
and family name, Francis Tyrrel. He is like enough to mis- 
take the inn, too, and I should be sorry it fell into Monsieur 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 309 


Martigny’s hands—I suppose you know he is in that neighbor- 
hood ?—Look after its safety, Solmes—quietly, you understand ; 
because people might put odd constructions, as if I were want-— 
ing a letter which was not my own.” 

“T understand perfectly, my lord,” said Solmes, without ex- 
hibiting the slightest change in his sallow countenance, though 
perfectly comprehending the nature of the service required. 

_ “And here is a note will pay for postage,” said the Earl, 
putting into his valet’s hand a bank-bill of considerable value ; 
“and you may keep the balance for occasional expenses.” 

This was also fully understood; and Solmes, too politic and 
cautious even to look intelligence, or acknowledge gratitude, 
made only a bow of acquiescence, put the note into his pocket- 
book, and assured his lordship that his commands should be 
punctualiy attended to. 

“There goes the agent for my money, and for my purpose,” 
said Lord Etherington, exultingly ; ‘no extorting of confidence, 
no demanding of explanations, no tearing off the veil with 
which a delicate manceuvre gaz¢—all excuses are received as 
argent comptant, provided only, that the best excuse of all, the 
argent comptant itself, come to recommend them.—Yet I will 
trust no one—I will out, like a skilful general, and reconnoitre 
in person.”’ 

With this resolution, Lord Etherington put on his surtout 
and cap, and sallying from his apartments, took the way to the 
bookseller’s shop, which also served as post-office and circulating 
library ; and being in the very centre of the parade (for so is 
termed the broad terrace-walk which leads from the inn to the 
Well), it formed a convenient lounging-place for newsmongers 
and idlers of every description. 

The Ear!’s appearance created, as usual, a sensation upon the 
public promenade ; but whether it was the suggestion of his 
own alarmed conscience, or that there was some real cause for 
the remark, he could not help thinking his reception was of a 
more doubtful character than usual. His fine figure and easy 
manners produced their usual effect, and all whom he spoke 
to received his attention as an honor; but none offered, as 
usual, to unite themselves to him, or to induce him to join 
their party. He seemed to be looked on rather as an object 
of observation and attention, than as making one of the com- 
pany ; and to escape from a distant gaze, which became rather 
embarrassing, he turned into the little emporium of news and 
literature. 

He entered unobserved, just as Lady Penelope had finished 
reading some verses, and was commenting upon them with all 


310 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


the alacrity of a femme savante, in possession of something which 
no one is to hear repeated oftener than once. 

“* Copy—no indeed !” these were the snatches which reached 
Lord Etherington’s ear, from the group of which her ladyship 
formed the centre—‘honor bright—I must not betray poor 
Chatterly—besides, his lordship is my friend, and a person of 
rank, you know—so one would not—You have not got the 
book, Mr. Pott ?—you have not got Statius ?—you never have 
anything one longs to see.’ 

“Very sorry, my lady—dquite out of copies at present—I 
expect some in my next monthly parcel.” 

“Good lack, Mr. Pott, that is your never-failing answer,” 
said Lady Penelope ; “I believe if I were to ask you for the 
last new edition of the Alkoran, you would tell me it was com- 
ing down in your next monthly parcel.” 

“Can’t say, my lady, really,” answered Mr. Pott; “have 
not seen the work advertised yet ; but I have no doubt, if it is 
likely to take, there will be copies in my next monthly parcel.” 

“Mr. Pott’s supplies are always in the paulo post futurum 
tense,” said Mr. Chatterly, who was just entering the shop. 

“ Ah ! Mr. Chatterly, are you there ?” said Lady Penelope ; 
““T lay my death at your door-—I cannot find this Thebaid, 
where Polynices and his brother ”’ 

“Hush my lady !—hush, for Heaven’s sake!” said the 
poetical divine, and looked toward Lord Etherington. Lady 
Penelope took the hint, and was silent ; but she had said 
enough to call up the traveler Touchwood, who raised his 
head from the newspaper which he was studying, and without 
addressing his discourse to any one in particular, ejaculated, as 
if in scorn of Lady Penelope’s geography— 

“ Polynices ?—Polly Peachum.—There is no such place in 
the Thebais—the Thebais is in Egypt—the mummies come 
from the Thebais—I have been in the catacombs——-caves very 
curious indeed—we were lapidated by the natives—pebbled to 
some purpose, I give you my word. My janizary thrashed a 
whole village by way of retaliation.” 

While he was thus proceeding, Lord.Etherington, as if in a 
listless mood, was looking at the letters which stood ranged on 
the chimney-piece, and carrying on a languid dialogue with Mrs. 
Pott, whose person and manners were not ill adapted to her 
situation, for she was good-looking, and vastly fine and affected. 

“‘ Number of letters here which don’t seem to find owners, 
Mrs. Pott ?” 

“Great number, indeed, my lord—it is a great vexation, for 
we are obliged to return them to the post-office, and the postage 


ST: RONAN’S WELL. 311 


is charged against us if they are lost ; and how can one keep 
sight of them all ?” 

“ Any love-letters among them, Mrs. Pott ?” said his lord- 
ship, lowering his tone. 

“Oh, fie ! my lord, how should I know?” answered Mrs. 
Pott, dropping her voice to the same cadence. 

“Oh! every one can tell a love-letter—that has ever re- 
ceived one, that is—one knows them without opening—they 
are always folded hurriedly and sealed carefully—and the 
direction manifests a kind of tremulous agitation, that marks 
the state of the writer’s nerves—that now,’—pointing with his 
switch to a letter upon the chimney-piece, that must be a love- 
letter.” 

“He, he, he!” giggled Mrs. Pott. “I beg pardon for 
laughing, my lord—but—he, he, he !—that is a letter from 
one Bindloose, the banker body, to the old woman Luckie 
Dods, as they call her, at the change-house in the Aultoun.” 

* Depend upon it, then, Mrs. Pott, that your neighbor, Mrs. 
Dods, has got a lover in Mr. Bindloose—unless the banker has 
been shaking hands with the palsy. Why do you not forward 
her letter ?-—you are very cruel to keep it in durance here.” 

“Me forward!” answered Mrs. Pott; ‘the capernoity, old, 
girning alewife, may wait long enough or I forward it—She’ll 
not loose the letters that come to her by the King’s post, and 
she must go on troking wi’ the old carrier, as if there was no 
post-house in the neighborhood. But the solicitor will be 
about wi’ her one of these days.” 

“Oh! you are too cruel—you really should send the love- 
letter; consider, the older she is, the poor soul has the less 
time to lose.” . 

But this was a topic on which Mrs. Pott understood no jest- 
ing. She was well aware of our matron’s inveteracy against 
her and her establishment, and she resented it as a placeman 
resents the efforts of a radical. She answered, something 
sulkily, “that they that loosed letters should have letters ; 
and neither Luckie Dods, nor any of her lodgers, should ever 
see the scrape of a pen from the St. Ronan’s office, that they 
did not call for and pay for.” 

It is probable that this declaration contained the essence 
of the information which Lord Etherington had designed to 
extract by his momentary flirtation with Mrs. Pott, for which 
retreating as it were from this sore subject, she asked him, ina 
pretty mincing tone, to try his skill in pointing out another 
love-letter, he only answered, carelessly, “that in order to do 
that he must write her one;” and leaving his confidential 


312 ST: RONAN’S WELL. 


station by her little throne, he lounged through the narrow 
shop, bowed slightly to Lady Penelope as he passed, and issued 
forth upon the parade, where he saw a spectacle which might 
have appalled a man of less self-possession than himself. 

Just as he left the shop, little Miss Digges entered almost 
breathless, with the emotion of impatience and of curiosity. 
“Oh la! my lady, what do you stay here for ?—Mr. Tyrrel has 
just entered the other end of the parade this moment, and 
Lord Etherington is walking that way—they must meet each 
other.—O Lord! come, come away, and see them meet !—I 
wonder if they'll speak—I hope they won’t fight—Oh la! do 
come, my lady!” 

“IT must go with you, I find,” said Lady Penelope; ‘it is 
the strangest thing, my love, that curiosity of yours about other 
folk’s matters—I wonder what your mamma will say to it.” 

“Oh! never mind mamma—nobody minds her—papa, nor 
nobody—Do come, dearest Lady Pen, or I will run away by 
myself.—Mr. Chatt erly, do make her come !” 

“‘T must come, it seems,” said Lady Penelope, “ or I shall 
have a pretty account of you,” 

But, notwithstanding this rebuke, and forgetting, at the 
same time, that people of quality ought never to seem in a 
hurry, Lady Penelope, with such of her satelites as she could 
hastily collect around her, tripped along the parade with un- 
usual haste, in sympathy, doubtless, with Miss Digges’s curiosity, 
as her ladyship declared she had none of her own. 

Our friend, the traveler, had also caught up Miss Digges’s in- 
formation; and, breaking off abruptly an account of the Great 
Pyramid, which had been naturally introduced by the mention 
of the Thebais, and echoing the fair alarmist’s words, ‘* hope 
they won’t fight,” he rushed upon the parade, and bustled along 
as hard as his sturdy supporters could carry him. If the gravity 
of the traveler, and the delicacy of Lady Penelope, were sur- 
prised into unwonted haste from their eagerness to witness the 
meeting of Tyrrel and Lord Etherington, it may be well sup- 
posed that the decorum of the rest of the company was a slender 
restraint on their curiosity, and that they hurried to be present 
at the expected scene, with the alacrity of gentlemen of the 
fancy hastening to a set-to. 

In truth, though the meeting afforded little sport to those 
who expected dire conclusions, it was, nevertheless, sufficiently 
interesting to those spectators who are accustomed to read the 
language of suppressed passion, betraying itself at the moment 
when the parties are most desirous to conceal it. 

Tyrrel had been followed by several loiterers so soon as he 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 313 


entered the public walk; and their number was now so much 
reinforced that he saw himself with pain and displeasure the 
centre of a sort of crowd, who watched his motions. Sir Bingo 
and Captain MacTurk were the first to bustle through it, and to 
address him with as much politeness as they could command. 

“ Servant, sir,’ mumbled Sir Bingo, extending the right 
hand of fellowship and reconciliation, ungloved. ‘‘ Servant— 
sorry that anything should have happened between us—very 
sorry, on my word.” 

“No more need be said, sir,” replied Tyrrel ; ‘‘ the whole is 
forgotten.” 

** Very handsome, indeed—quite the civil thing—hope to 
meet you often, sir.”’—-And here the knight was silent. 

Meanwhile the more verbose Captain proceeded, ‘ Och, py 
Cot, and it was an ahful mistake, and I could draw the pen- 
knife across my finger for having written the word.—By my 
sowl, and I scratched it till I scratched a hole in the paper.— 
Och! that I should live to do an uncivil thing by a gentleman 
that had got himself hit in an honorable affair! But you should 
have written, my dear; for how the devil could we guess that 
you were so well provided in quarrels, that you had to settle 
two in one day?” 

“Tt was hurt in an unexpected—an accidental manner, 
Captain MacTurk. I did not write, because there was some- 
thing in my circumstances at the moment which required 
secrecy ; but I was resolved, the instant I recovered, to put my- 
self to rights in your good opinion.” 

“ Och ! and you have done that,” said the Captain, nodding 
sagaciously ; ‘‘ for Captain Jekyl, who is a fine child, has put 
us all up to your honorable conduct. They are pretty boys, 
these guardsmen, though they may play alittle fine sometimes, 
and think more of themselves than peradventure they need for 
to do, in comparison with us of the line.—But he let us know 
all about it—and, though he said not a word of a certain fine 
lord, with his footpad and his hurt, and what not, yet we all 
knew how to lay that and that together.—And if the law would 
not right you, and there were bad words between you, why 
should not two gentlemen right themselves? And as to your 
being kinsmen, why should not kinsmen behave to each other 
like men of honor? Only, some say you are father’s sons, 
and that zs something too near.—I had once thoughts of call- 
ing out my uncle Dougal myself, for there is no saying where 
the line should be drawn ; but I thought, on the whole, there 
should be no fighting, as there is no marriage, within the for- 
bidden degrees. As for first cousins—Wheugh !—that’s all 


314 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


fair—fire away, Flanigan !—But here is my lord, just upon us, 
like a stag of the first head, and the whole herd behind him.” 

Tyrrel stepped forward a little before his officious com- 
panions, his complexion rapidly changing into various shades, 
like that of one who forces himself to approach and touch 
some animal or reptile for which he entertains that deep dis- 
gust and abhorrence which was anciently ascribed to constitu- 
tional antipathy. This appearance of constraint put upon him- 
self, with the changes which it produced on his face, was cal- 
culated to prejudice him somewhat in the opinion of the spec- 
tators, when compared with the steady, stately, yet, at the same 
time, easy demeanor of the Earl of Etherington, who was equal 
to any man in England in the difficult art of putting a good 
countenance on a bad cause.’ He met Tyrrel with an air as 
unembarrassed as it was cold ; and, while he paid the courtesy 
of a formal and distant salutation, he said aloud, “ I presume, 
Mr. Tyrrel de Martigny, that, since you have not thought fit 
to avoid this awkward meeting, you are disposed to remember 
our family connection so far as to avoid making sport for the 
good company?” 

“You have nothing to apprehend from my passion, Mr. Bul- 
mer,” replied Tyrrel, “if you can assure yourself against the 
consequences of your own.” 

“Tam glad of that,” said the Earl, with the same com- 
posure, but sinking his voice so as only to be heard by Tyrrel; 
“and, as we may not again in a hurry hold any communication 
together, I take the freedom to remind you, that I sent you a 
proposal of accommodation by my friend, Mr. Jekyl.” 

“It was inadmissible,” said Tyrrel—‘ altogether inadmis- 
sible—both from reasons which you may guess, and others 
which it is needless to detail—I sent you a proposition, think 
of it well.” 

“ T will,” replied Lord Etherington, “ when I shall see it 
supported by those alleged proofs, which I do not believe ever 
had existence.” 

‘Your conscience holds another language from your 
tongue,” said Tyrrel ; “ but I disclaim reproaches, and decline 
altercation. I will let Captain Jekyl know when I have re- 
ceived the papers, which, you say, are essential to your forming 
an opinion on my proposal. In the meanwhile, do not think 
to deceive me. JI am here for the very purpose of watching 
and defeating your machinations ; and, while I live, be assured 
they shall never succeed. And now, sir—or my lord—for the 
titles are in your choice-—fare you well.” | 

Hold a little,” said Lord Etherington, ‘Since we are 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 315 


condemned to shock each other’s eyes, it is fit the good company 
should know what they are to think of us... You are a philoso- 
pher, and do not value the opinion of the public—a poor world- 
ling like me is desirous to stand fair with it. Gentlemen,” he 
continued, raising his voice, “ Mr. Winterblossom, Captain 
MacTurk, Mr.—what is his name, Jekyl ?—Ay, Micklehen— 
You have, I believe, all some notion, that this gentleman, my 
near relation, and I, have some undecided ciaims on each 
other, which prevent our living upon good terms. We do not 
mean, however, to disturb you with our family quarrels ; and, 
for my own part, while this gentleman, Mr. Tyrrel, or whatever 
he may please to call himself, remains a member of this com- 
pany, my behavior to him will be the same as to any stranger 
who may have that advantage——Good morrow to you, sir— 
Good morning, gentlemen—we all meet at dinner, as usual. 
Come, Jekyl.” 

So saying, he took Jekyl by the arm, and, gently extricating 
himself from the sort of crowd, walked off, leaving most of the 
company prepossessed in his favor, by the ease and apparent 
reasonableness of his demeanor. Sounds of depreciation, 
forming themselves indistinctly into something like the words, 
“ My eye, and Betty Martin,” did issue from the neckcloth of 
Sir Bingo, but they were not much attended to; for it had not 
escaped the observation of the quicksighted gentry at the 
Well, that the Baronet’s feelings toward the noble Earl were 
in the inverse ratio of those displayed by Lady Binks, and that, 
though ashamed to testify, or perhaps incapable of feeling, any 
anxious degree of jealousy, his temper had been for some time 
considerably upon the fret ; a circumstance concerning which 
his fair moiety did not think it necessary to give herself any 
concern. 

Meanwhile the Earl of Etherington walked onward with his 
confident, in the full triumph of successful genius. 

“You see,” he said, ‘“ Jekyl, that I can turn a corner with 
any man in England. It was a proper blunder of yours, that 
you must extricate the fellow from the mist which accident had 
flung around. him—you might as well have published the story 
of our rencontre at once, for every one can guess it, by laying 
time, place, and circumstance together ; but never trouble your 
brains for a justification. You marked how I assumed my 
natural superiority over him—towered up in the full pride of 
legitimacy—silenced him, even where the good company most 
do congregate. ‘This will go to Mowbray through his. agent, 
and will put him still madder on my alliance. _ I know he looks 
jealously on my flirtation with a certain lady—the dasher yon- 


£ 


316 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


der—nothing makes a man sensible of the value of an oppor: 
tunity but the chance of losing it.” 

“JT wish to Heaven you would give up thoughts of Miss 
Mowbray !” said Jekyl; ‘‘and take Tyrrel’s offer, if he has the 
means of making it good.” 

“Ay, if—if. But I am quite sure he has no such rights as 
he pretends to, and that his papers are all a deception.—Why 
do you put your eye upon me as fixed as if you were searching 
out some wonderful secret?” 

“T wish I knew what to think of your real dona fide belief 
respecting these documents,” said Jekyl, not a little puzzled by 
the steady and unembarrassed air of his friend. 

“Why, thou most suspicious of coxcombs,” said Ethering- 
ton, “what the devil would you have me to say to you ?—Can 
I, as the lawyers say, prove a negative ? or, is it not very pos- 
sible, that such things may exist, though I have never seen or 
heard of them? All I can say is, that of all men I am the 
most interested to deny the existence of such documents ; and, 
therefore, certainly will not admit of it, unless I am compelled 
to do so by their being produced; nor then either, unless I am 
at the same time well assured of their authenticity.” 

“T cannot blame you for your being hard of faith, my lord,” 
said Jekyl; “but still I think if you can cut out with your earl- 
dom, and your noble hereditary estate, I would, in your Case, 
pitch Nettlewood to the devil.” 

“Yes, as you pitched your own patrimony, Jekyl; but you 
took care to have the spending of it first. What would you 
give for such an opportunity of piecing your fortunes by mar- 
riage ?—Confess the truth.” 

‘“‘T might be tempted, perhaps,” said Jekyl, “in my present 
circumstances ; but if they were what they have been, I should 
despise an estate that was to be held by petticoat tenure, 
especially when the lady of the manor was a sickly fantastic 
girl, that hated me, as this Miss Mowbray has the bad taste to 
hate you.” 

‘“Umph—sickly ?—no, no, she is not sickly —she is as 
healthy as any one in constitution—and, on my word, I think 
her paleness only renders her more interesting. The last time 
I saw her, I thought she might have rivaled one of Canova’s 
finest statues.” 

“Yes ;-but she is indifferent to you—you do not love her,” 
said Jekyl. 

“She is anything but indifferent to me,” said the Earl; 
“she becomes daily more interesting—for her dislike piques 
me, and besides, she has the insolence openly to defy and con- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 31) 


temn me before her brother, and in the eyes of all the world. 
I have akind of loving hatred—a sort of hating love for her ; 
in short, thinking upon her is like trying to read a riddle, and 
makes one make quite as many blunders, and talk just as much 
nonsense. If ever I have the opportunity, I will make her pay 
for all her airs.” 

“What airs?” said Jekyl. 

“Nay, the devil may describe them, for I cannot; but, for 
example—Since her brother has insisted on her receiving me, 
or I should rather say on her appearing when I visit Shaws 
Castle, one would think her invention has toiled in discovering 
different ways of showing want of respect to me, and dislike to 
my presence. Instead of dressing herself as a lady should, 
especially on such occasions, she chooses some fantastic, or old- 
fashioned, or negligent bedizening, which makes her at least 
look odd, if it cannot make her ridiculous—such triple tiaras of 
various colored gauze on her head—such pieces of old tapestry, 
I think, instead of shawls and pelisses—such thick-soled shoes 
—such tan-leather gloves—mercy upon us, Hal, the very sight 
of her equipment would drive mada whole conclave of milliners ! 
Then her postures are so strange—she does so stoop and lollop, 
as the women call it, so cross her legs and square her arms— 
were the goddess of grace to look down on her, it would put 
her to flight forever !” 

“And you are willing to make this awkward, ill-dressed, 
unmannered dowdy, your Countess, Etherington ; you, for whose 
critical eye half the town dress themselves ?” said Jeky]. 

“It is all a trick, Hal—all an assumed character to get rid 
of me, to disgust me, to baffle me; but I am not to be had so 
easily. The brother is driven to despair—he bites his nails, 
winks, coughs, makes signs, which she always takes up at cross- 
purpose. I hope he beats her after I go away; there would be 
a touch of consolation, were one but certain of that.” 

_ “A very charitable hope, truly, and your present feelings 
might lead the lady to judge what she may expect after wed- 
lock. But,” added Jekyl, “cannot you, so skilful in fathoming 
every mood of the female mind, divine some mode of engaging 
her in conversation ? ” 

“Conversation!” replied the Earl; ‘why, ever since the 
shock of my first appearance was surmounted, she has contrived 
to vote me a nonentity; and that she may annihilate me com- 
pletely, she has chosen, of all occupations, that of working 
a stocking! From what cursed old antediluvian, who lived 
before the invention of spinning-jennies, she learned this craft, 
Heaven only knows: but there she sits, with her work pinned 


318 ST. RONAN’'S WELL. 


to her knee —not the pretty taper silk fabric, with which 
Jeannette of Amiens coquetted while Tristram Shandy was 
observing her progress ; but a huge worsted bag, designed for 
some flat-tooted old pauper, with heels like an elephant—And 
there she squats, counting all the stitches as she works, and 
refusing to speak, or listen, or look up, under pretence that it 
disturbs her calculation ! ” 

“An elegant occupation, truly, and I wonder it does not 
work a cure upon her noble admirer,”’ said Jekyl. 

‘*Confound her-—no—she shall not trick me. And then, 
amid this affectation of vulgar stolidity, there break out such 
sparkles of exultation, when she thinks she has succeeded in 
baffling her brother, and in plaguing me, that, by my faith, 
Hal, I could not tell, were it at my option, whether to kiss or 
to cuff her.” 

“You are determined to go on with this strange affair, 
then?” said Jekyl. 

“¢OQn—on—on, my boy !—Clara and Nettlewood forever!” 
answered the Earl. ‘“‘ Besides, this brother of hers provokes me 
too—he does not do for me half what he might—what he ought 
to do. He stands on point of honor, forsooth, this broken- 
down horse-jockey, who swallowed my two thousand pounds, as 
a pointer would a pat of butter. I can see he wishes to play 
fast and loose—has some suspicions, like you, Hal, upon the 
strength of my right to my father’s titles and estate, as if, with 
the tithe of the Nettlewood property alone, I would not be too 
good a match for one of his beggarly family. He must scheme, 
forsooth, this half-baked Scotch cake !—He must hold off and 
on, and be cautious, and wait the result, and try conclusions 
with me, this lump of oatmeal dough !—I am much tempted to 
make an example of him in the course of my proceedings.” 

“Why, this is vengeance horrible and dire,” said Jekyl; 
‘vet I give up the brother to you; he is a conceited coxcomb, 
and deserves a lesson. But I would fain intercede for the 
sister.” 

‘““We shall see,” replied the Earl; and then suddenly, “ I 
tell you what it is, Hal; her caprices are so diverting, that I 
sometimes think out of mere contradiction, I almost love her; 
at least, if she would but clear old scores, and forget one un- 
lucky prank of mine, it should be her own fault if I did not 
make her a happy woman.” 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 319 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND. 
A DEATH-BED, 


It comes—It wrings me in my parting hour, 
The long-hid crime—the well-disguised guilt. 
Bring me some holy priest to lay the spectre ! 
OLD PLAY. 


THE general expectation of the company had been disap- 
pointed by the pacific termination of the meeting betwixt the 
Earl of Etherington and Tyrrel, the anticipation of which had 
created so deep a sensation. It had been expected that some 
appalling scene would have taken place; instead of which, 
each party seemed to acquiesce in a sullen neutrality, and 
leave the war to be carried on by their lawyers. It was gen- 
erally understood that the cause was removed out of the courts 
of Bellona into that of Themis; and although the litigants 
continued to inhabit the same neighborhood, and once or twice 
met at the public walks or public table, they took no notice of 
each other, further than by exchanging on such occasions a 
grave and distant bow. 

In the course of two or three days people ceased to take 
interest in a feud so coldly conducted; and if they thought of 
it at all, it was but to wonder that both the parties should 
persevere in residing near the Spa, and in chilling, with their 
unsocial behavior, a party met together for the purposes of 
health and amusement. | 

But the brothers, as the reader is aware, however painful 
their occasional meetings might be, had the strongest reasons 
to remain in each other’s neighborhood—Lord Etherington to 
conduct his design upon Miss Mowbray, ‘Tyrrel to disconcert 
his plan if possible, and both to await the answer which should 
be returned by the house in London, who were depositaries of 
the papers left by the late Earl. 

Jekyl, anxious to assist his friend as much as possible, 
made in the meantime a visit to old Touchwood at the Aultoun, 
expecting to find him as communicative as he had formerly 
been on the subject of the quarrel betwixt the brothers, and 
trusting to discover, by dint of address, whence he had derived 
his information concerning the affairs of the noble house of 
Etherington. But the confidence which he had been induced 
to expect on the part of the old traveler was not reposed.. 


320 ST. RONAN S WELT: 


Ferdinand Mendez Pinto, as the Earl called him, had changed 
his mind, or was not in the vein of communication. The only 
proof of his confidence worth mentioning, was his imparting 
to the young officer a valuable receipt for concocting curry- 
powder. 

Jekyl was therefore reduced to believe that Touchwood, who 
appeared all his life to be a great intermeddler in other people’s 
matters, had puzzled out the information which he appeared to 
possess of Lord Etherington’s affairs, through some of those 
obscure sources whence very important secrets do frequently, to 
the astonishment and confusion of those whom they concern, 
escape to the public. He thought this the move likely, as 
Touchwood was by no means critically nice in his society, but 
was observed to converse as readily with a gentleman’s gentle- 
man, as with the gentleman to whom he belonged, and with a 
lady’s attendant, as with the lady herself. He that will stoop 
to this sort of society, who is fond of tattle, being at the same 
time disposed to pay some consideration for gratification of his 
curiosity, and not over scrupulous respecting its accuracy, may 
always command a great quantity of private anecdote. Captain 
Jekyl naturally enough concluded, that this busy old man 
became in some degree master of other people’s affairs by such 
correspondences as these ; and he could himself bear witness to 
his success in cross-examination, as he had been surprised into 
an avowal of the rencontre between the brothers, by an insidious 
observation of the said Touchwood. He reported, therefore, to 
the Earl, after this interview, that, on the whole, he thought 
he had no reason to fear much on the subject of the traveler, 
who, though he had become acquainted, by some means or 
other, with some leading facts of his remarkable history, only 
possessed them in a broken, confused, and desultory manner, 
insomuch, that he seemed to doubt whether the parties in the 
expected lawsuit were brothers or cousins, and appeared totally 
ignorant of the facts on which it was to be founded. 

It was the next day after this ¢claircissement on the subject 
of Touchwood, that Lord Etherington dropped as usual into the 
bookseller’s shop, got his papers, and skimming his eye over 
the shelf on which lay, till called for, the postponed letters, des- 
tined for the Aultoun, saw with a beating heart the smart posts 
mistress toss amongst them, with an air of sovereign contempt, 
a pretty large packet, addressed to Francis Tyrrel, Esq., ete. 
He withdrew his eyes, as if conscious that even to have looked 
on this important parcel might engender some suspicion of his 
purpose, or intimate the deep interest which he took in the con- 
tents of the missive which was so slightly treated by his friend 


ST, RONAN’S WELL. 321. 


Mrs. Pott. At this moment the door of the shop opened, and 
Lady Penelope Penfeather entered, with her eternal Aendante, 
the little Miss Digges. 

“Have you seen Mr. Mowbray ?—Has Mr. Mowbray of St. 
Ronan’s been down this morning ?—Do you know anything of 
Mr. Mowbray, Mrs. Pott?” were questions which the lettered 
lady eagerly huddled on the back of each other, scarcely giving 
time to the lady of letters to return a decided negative to all 
and each of them. 

“Mr. Mowbray was not about—was not coming there this 
morning—his servant had just called for letters and papers, 
and announced as much.” 

“Good Heaven! how unfortunate!” said Lady Penelope, 
with a deep sigh, and sinking down on one of the little sofas in 
an attitude of shocking desolation, which called the instant 
attention of Mr. Pott and his good woman, the first uncorking 
a small phial of salts, for he was a pharmacopolist as well as 
a vender of literature and transmitter of letters, and the other 
hastening for a glass of water. A strong temptation thrilled 
from Lord Etherington’s eyes to his finger-ends. Two steps 
might have brought him within arm’s-length of the unwatched 
packet, on the contents of which, in all probability, rested the 
hope and claims of his rival in honor and fortune; and, in the 
general confusion, was it impossible to possess himself of it un- 
observed ? But no—no—no—the attempt was too dreadfully 
dangerous to be risked; and, passing from one extreme to 
another, he felt as if he was incurring suspicion by suffering 
Lady Penelope to play off her airs of affected distress and anx- 
lety, without seeming to take that interest in them which her 
rank at least might be supposed to demand. Stung with this 
apprehension, he hastened to express himself so anxiously on 
the subject, and to demonstrate so busily his wish to assist her 
ladyship, that he presently stood committed a great deal 
further than he had intended. Lady, Penelope was infinitely 
obliged to his lordship—indeed, it was her character in gen- 
eral not to permit herself to be overcome by circumstances; 
but something had happened, so strange, so embarrassing, so 
melancholy, that she owned it had quite overcome her—not- 
withstanding she had at all times piqued herself on supporting 
her own distresses, better than she was able tosuppress her 
emotions in viewing those of others. 

“Could he be of any use ?” Lord Etherington asked. “ She 
had inquired for Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s—his servant was 
at her ladyship’s service, if she chose to send to command his 
attendance,” 


322 ST. RONAMS WELL. 


“Oh! no, no!” said Lady Penelope ; “I dare say, my deat 
Jord, you will answer the purpose a great deal better that Mr 
Mowbray—that is, provided you are a Justice of Peace.” 

‘A Justice of Peace!” said Lord Etherington, much sur- 
prised; ‘‘Il amin the commission unquestionably, but not for 
any Scotch county.” | 

“Qh, that does not signify,” said Lady Penelope; “ and if 
you will trust yourself with me a little way, I will explain to 
you how you can do one of the most charitable, and kind, and 
generous things in the world.” 

Lord Etherington’s delight in the exercise of charity, kind- 
ness, and generosity, was not so exuberant as to prevent his 
devising some means for evading Lady Penelope’s request, 
when, looking through the sash-door, he had adistant glance of 
his servant Solmes approaching the Post-office. 

I have heard of a sheep-stealer who had rendered his dog so 
skilful an accomplice in his nefarious traffic, that he used to send 
him out to commit acts of felony by himself, and had even con- 
trived to impress on the poor cur the caution that he should not, 
on such occasions, seem even to recognize his master, if they 
met accidentally.* Apparently, Lord Etherington conducted 
himself upon a similar principle; for he had no sooner a glimpse 
of his agent, than he seemed to feel the necessity of leaving the 
stage free for his machinations. 

‘“‘ My servant,” he said, with as much indifference as he could 
assume, “ will call for my letters—I must attend Lady Pen- 
elope ;”’ and instantly proffering his services as Justice of the 
Peace, or in whatever other quality she chose to employ them, 
he hastily presented his arm, and scarce gave her ladyship time 
to recover from her state of languor to the necessary degree of 
activity, ere he hurried her from the shop ; and, with her thin 
hatchet-face chattering close to his ear, her yellow and scarlet 
feathers crossing his nose, her lean right honorable arm hooking 
his elbow, he braved the suppressed titters and sneers of all the 
younger women whom he met as they traversed the parade. 
One glance of intelligence, though shot at a distance, passed 
betwixt his lordship and Solmes, as the former left the public 
walk under the guidance of Lady Penelope, his limbs indeed 
obeying her pleasure, and:his ears dinned with her attempts to 
explain the business in question, but his mind totally indifferent. 
where he was going, or ignorant on what purpose, and exclusively 
occupied with the packet in Mrs. Pott’s heap of postponed 
letters, and its probable fate. 


* Note F, Canine dexterity. 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 323 


_ At length, an effort of recollection made Lord Etherington 
sensible that his abstraction. must seem strange, and, as his 
conscience told him, even suspicious, in the eyes of his. com- 
panion ; putting, therefore, the necessary degree of constraint 
upon himself, he expressed, for the first time, curiosity to know 
where their walk was to terminate. It chanced, that this was 
precisely the question which he needed not to have asked, if he 
had paid but the slightest attention to the very voluble com- 
munications of her ladyship, which had all turned upon this 
subject. 

“ Now, my dear lord,” she said, “ I must believe you lords 
of the creation think us poor simple women the vainest fools 
alive. JI have told you how much pain it costs me to speak 
about my little charities, and yet you come to make me tell 
you the whole story over again. But I hope, after all, your 
lordship is not surprised at what I have thought it my duty 
to do in this sad affair—perhaps I have hstened too much to 
the dictates of my own heart, which are apt to be so deceitful.” 

On the watch to get at something explanatory, yet afraid, by 
demanding it directly, to show that the previous tide of narrative 
and pathos had been lost.on.an inattentive ear, Lord Ethering- 
ton could only say, that Lady Penelope could not err in acting 
according to the dictates of her own judgment. 

Still the compliment had not sauce enough for the lady’s 
sated palate ; so, like a true glutton of praise, she began to help 
herself with the soup-ladle. 

Ah ! judgment !—how is it you men know us so little that 
you think we can pause to weigh sentiment in the balance of 
judgment ?—that is expecting rather too much from us poor 
victims of our feelings. So that you must really hold me excused 
if I forgot the errors of this guilty and unhappy creature, when 
I looked upon her wretchedness—Not that I would have my 
little friend, Miss Digges, or your lordship, suppose that I am 
capable of palliating the fault, while I pity the poor miserable 
sinner. Oh, no—Walpole’s verses express beautifully what one 
ought to feel on such occasions— 


‘ For never was the gentle breast 
Insensible to human woes ; 
Feeling, though firm, it melts distress’d 
For weaknesses it never knows.’ ” 


*“Most accursed of all précéeuses,” thought his lordship, 
“ when wilt thou, amidst all thy chatter, utter one word sounding 
like sense or information ? ” 

But Lady Penelope went on—“ If you knew, my lord, how I 


324 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


lament my limited means on those occasions! But I have 
gathered something among the good people at the Well. I asked 
that selfish wretch, Winterblossom, to walk down with me to 
view her distress, and the heartless beast told me he was afraid 
of infection !—infection from a puer—puerperal fever! I should 
not perhaps pronounce the word, but science is of no sex—how- 
ever, I have always used thieves’ vinegar essence, and never have 
gone further than the threshold.” 

Whatever were Etherington’s faults, he did not want charity, 
so far as it consists in giving alms. . 

“‘ T am sorry,” he said, taking out his purse, ‘ your ladyship 
should not have applied to me.” 

“Pardon me, my lord, we only beg from our friends ; and 
your lordship is so constantly engaged with Lady Binks, that 
we have rarely the pleasure of seeing you in what I call my 
little circle.” 

Lord Etherington, without further answer, tendered a couple 
of guineas, and observed, that the poor woman should have 
medical attendance. 

‘“Why, so I say,” answered Lady Penelope ; “and I asked 
the brute, Quackleben, who, Iam sure, owes me some gratitude, 
to go and see her; but the sordid monster answered, ‘Who 
was to pay him ?’—He grows every day more intolerable, now 
that he seems sure of marrying that fat blowzy widow. He 
could not, I am sure, expect that I—out of my pittance—And 
besides, my lord, is there not a law that the parish, or the 
county, or the something or other, shall pay for physicking the 
poor?” 

‘““We will find means to secure the Doctor’s attendance,” 
said Lord Etherington ; ‘‘and I believe my best way will be to 
walk back to the Well, and send him to wait on the patient. 
I am afraid I can be of little use to a poor woman in a child- 
bed fever.” 

“‘ Puerperal, my lord, puerperal,” said Lady Penelope, in a 
tone of correction. 

‘“‘In a puerperal fever, then,” said Lord Etherington ; “ why, 
what can I do to help her ?” 

“Qh! my lord, you have forgotten that this Anne Heggie, 
that I told you of, came here with one child in her arms—and 
another—in short, about to become a mother again—and settled 
herself in this miserable hut that I told you of—and some peo- 
ple think the minister should have sent her to her own parish ; 
but he is a strange, soft-headed, sleepy sort of man, not over 
active in his parochial duties. However, there she settled, and 
there was something about her quite beyond the style of a com- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 325 


mon pauper, my lerd—not at all the disgusting sort of person 
that you give a sixpence to while you look another way—but 
some one that seemed to have seen better days—one that, as 
Shakespeare says, could a tale unfold—though, indeed, I have 
never thoroughly learned her history—only, that to-day, as I 
called to know how she was, and sent my maid into her hut with 
some trifle, not worth mentioning, I find there is something 
hangs about her mind concerning the Mowbray family here of 
St. Ronan’s—and my woman says the poor creature is dying, 
_and is raving either for Mr. Mowbray or for some magistrate to 
receive a declaration ; and so I have given you the trouble to 
come with me, that we may get outof the poor creature, if 
possible, whatever she has got to say.—I hope it is not murder 
—I hope not—though young St. Ronan’s has_ been a strange, 
wild, daring, thoughtless creature — sgherro insigne, as the 
Italian says.—But here is the hut, my lord—pray, walk in.” 

The mention of St. Ronan’s family, and of a secret relating 
to them, banished the thoughts which Lord Etherington began 
to entertain of leaving Lady Penelope to execute her works of 
devoted charity without his assistance. It was now with an 
interest equal to her own, that he stood before a most miserable 
hut, where the unfortunate female, her distresses not greatly 
relieved by Lady Penelope’s ostentatious bounty, had resided 
both previous to her confinement, and since that event had 
taken place, with an old woman, one of the parish poor, whose 
miserable dole the minister had augmented, that she might have 
some means of assisting the stranger. 

Lady Penelope lifted the latch and entered, after a momen- 
tary hesitation, which proceeded from a struggle betwixt her 
fear of infection, and her eager curiosity to know something, she 
could not guess what, that might affect the Mowbrays in their 
honor or fortunes. The latter soon prevailed, and she entered, 
followed by Lord Etherington. The lady, like other comforters 
of the cabins of the poor, proceeded to rebuke the grumbling old 
woman, for want of order and cleanliness—censured the food 
which was provided for the patient, and inquired particularly 
after the wine which she had left to make caudle with. The 
crone was not so dazzled with Lady Penelope’s dignity or bounty 
as to endure her reprimand with patience. ‘They that had 
their bread to won wi’ ae arm,” she said, for the other hung 
powerless by her side, ‘had mair to do than to soop houses ; 
if her leddyship wad let her ain idle quean of a lass take the 
besom, she might make the house as clean as she liked; and 
madam wad be a’ the better of the exercise, and wad hae done, 
at least, ae turn of wark at the week’s end.” 


326 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


“Do you hear the old hag, my lord?” said Lady Penelope, 
“‘ Well, the poor are horrid ungrateful wretches.—And the wine, 
dame—the wine ?” 

“The wine !—there was hardly half-a-mutchkin, and puir, 
thin, fushionless skink it was—the wine was drunk out, ye may 
swear—we didna fling it ower our shouther—if ever we were to 
get good o’t, it was by taking it naked, and no wi’ your sugar 
and your slaisters—I wish, for ane, I had ne’er kend the sour 
smack o’t. If the bedral hadna gien me a drap of usquenaiely 
I might e’en hae died of your leddyship’s liquor, for” 

Lord Etherington here interrupted the or utiseiaietine crone, 
thrusting some silver into her grasp, and at the same time beg- 
ging her to be silent. The hag weighed the crown-piece in her 
hand, and crawled to her chimney-corner, muttering as she 
went,——“ This is something like—this is something like—no 
like rinning into the house and out of the house, and geeing 
orders, like mistress and mair, and then a puir shilling again 
Saturday at e’en.’ 

So saying, she sat down to her wheel, and seized, while she 
spun, her jet-black cutty pipe, from which she soon sent such 
clouds of vile mundungus vapor as must have cleared the 
premises of Lady Penelope, had she not been strong in pur- 
pose to share the expected confession of the invalid. As for 
Miss Digges, she coughed, sneezed, retched, and finally ran 
out of the cottage, declaring she could not live in such a smoke, 
if it were to hear twenty sick women’s last speeches ; and that, 
besides, she was sure to know all about it from Lady Penelope, 
if it was ever so little worth telling over again. 

Lord Etherington was now standing beside the miserable 
flockbed, in which lay the poor patient, distracted, in what 
seemed to be her dying moments, with the peevish clamor of 
the elder infant, to which she could only reply by low moans, 
turning her looks as well as she could from its ceaseless whine, 
to the other side of her wretched couch, where lay the unlucky 
creature to which she had last given birth; its shivering limbs 
imperfectly covered with a blanket, its little features already 
swollen and bloated, and its eyes scarce open, apparently in- 
sensible to the evils of a state from which it seemed about to 
be speedily released. 

“You are very ill, poor woman,” said Lord Etherington ; 
“J am told you desire a magistrate.” 

“It was Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s whom I desired to see 
—John Mowbray of St. Ronan’s—the lady promised to bring 
him here.” 

“JT am not Mowbray of St. Ronan’s,” said Lord Ethering; 


ST, RONAN’S WELL. 324 


ton; ‘but Iam a justice of peace, and a member of the legis- 
lature—I am, moreover, Mr. Mowbray’s particular friend, if I 
can be of use to you in any of these capacities.” 

The poor woman remained long silent, and when she spoke 
it was doubtfully. 

“Is my Lady Penelope Penfeather there ?” she said, strain- 
ing her darkened eyes. 

“Her ladyship is present, and within hearing,” said Lord 
Etherington. 

“My case is the worse,” answered the dying woman, for so 
she seemed, “if I must communicate such a secret'as mine to 
a man of whom I know nothing, and a woman of whom I only 
know that she wants discretion.” | 

“TI want discretion!” said Lady Penelope; but ata 
signal from Lord: Etherington she seemed to restrain herself ; 
nor did the sick woman, whose powers of observation were 
greatly impaired, seem to be aware of the interruption. She 
spoke, notwithstanding her situation, with an intelligible and 
even emphatic voice ; her manner in a great measure betray- 
ing the influence of the fever, and her tone and language seem- 
ing much superior to her most miserable condition. 

“Tam not the abject creature which I seem,” she said; 
“at least, I was not born to be so. I wish I were that utter 
abject! I wish: I were a wretched pauper of the lowest class— 


sensibility would make me bear my lot like the outcast animal 
that dies patiently on the side of the common, where it has 
been half-starved during its life. But I—but I—born and 
bred to better things, have not lost the memory of them, and 
they make my present condition—my shame—my poverty—my 
infamy—the sight of my dying babes—the sense that my own 
death is coming fast on—they make these things a foretaste of 
hell!” 

Lady Penelope’s self-conceit and affectation were broken 
down by this fearful exordium. She sobbed, shuddered, and 
for once perhaps in her life, felt the real, not the assumed, 
necessity of putting her handkerchief to her eyes. Lord 
Etherington also was moved. 

“Good woman,” he said, “as far as relieving your personal 
wants can mitigate jour distress, I will see ‘that “is fully per 
formed, and that your poor children are attended to.’ 

s May God bless you !” said the poor woman, with a glance 
at the wretched forms beside her; ‘‘ and may you,”’ she added, 
after a momentary pause, “ deserve the blessing of God, for it 
is bestowed in vain on those who are unworthy of it.” 


328 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


Lord Etherington felt, perhaps, a twinge of conscience ; for 
he said, something hastily, ‘“‘ Pray go on, good woman, if you 
really have anything to communicate to me as a magistrate— 
it is time your condition was somewhat mended, and I will 
cause you to be cared for directly.” 

‘Stop yet a moment,” she said ; ‘let me unload my con- 
science before I go hence, for no earthly relief will long avail 
to prolong my time here.—I was well born, the more my present 
shame ! well educated, the greater my present guilt!—I was 
always, indeed, poor, but I felt not of the ills of poverty. I 
only thought of it when my vanity demanded idle and expensive 
gratification, for real wants I knew none. I was companion of 
a young lady of higher rank than my own, my relative, how- 
ever, and one of such exquisite kindness of disposition, that 
she treated me as a sister, and would have shared with me all 
that she had on earth I scarce think I can go further with 
my story ! something rises to my throat when I recollect how I 
rewarded her sisterly love !—I was elder than Clara—I should 
have directed her reading, and confirmed her understanding ; 
but my own bent led me to. peruse only works, which, though 
they burlesque nature, are seductive to the imagination. We 
read these follies together, until we had fashioned out for our- 
selves a little world of romance, and prepared ourselves for a 
maze of adventures. Clara’s imaginations were as pure as 
those of angels; mine were—but it is unnecessary to tell them. 
The fiend, always watchful, presented a tempter at the moment 
when it was most dangerous.” 

She paused here, as if she found difficulty in expressing her- 
self; and Lord Etherington, turning, with great appearance of 
interest, to Lady Penelope, began to inquire, ‘‘ Whether it were 
quite agreeable to her ladyship to remain any longer an ear- 
witness of this unfortunate confession ?—it seems to be verging 
on some things—things that it might be unpleasant for your 
ladyship to hear.” 

‘‘T was just forming the same opinion, my lord, and, to say 
truth, was about to propose to your lordship to withdraw, and 
leave me alone with the poor woman. My sex will make her 
necessary communications the more frank in your lordship’s 
absence.” 

“True, madam; but then I am called here in my capacity 
of a magistrate.” 

“Hush!” said Lady Penelope ; “ she speaks.” 

‘They say that every woman that yields, makes herself a 
slave to her seducer; but I sold my liberty, not toa man, but a 
demon! He made me serve him in his vile schemes against 


ST. RONAN'S WELL. 329 


my friend and patroness—and oh! he found in me an agent 
too willing, from mere envy, to destroy the virtue which I had 
lost myself. Do not listen to me any more—Go, and leave me 
to my fate; I am the most detestable wretch that ever lived— 
detestable to myself worst of all, because even in my penitence 
there is a secret whisper that tells me, that were I as I have 
been, I would again act over all the wickedness I have done, 
and much worse. Oh! for Heaven’s assistance, to crush the 
wicked thought!” 

She closed her eyes, folded her emaciated hands, and held 
them upward in the attitude of one who prays internally ; 
presently the hands separated, and fell gently down on her 
miserable couch; but her eyes did not open, nor was there the 
slightest sign of motion on the features. Lady Penelope 
shrieked faintly, hid her eyes, and hurried back from the bed, 
while Lord Etherington, his looks darkening with a complica- 
tion of feelings, remained gazing on the poor woman, as if 
eager to discern whether the spark of life was totally extinct. 
Her grim old assistant hurried to the bedside, with some spirits 
in a broken glass. 

“Have ye no had pennyworths for your charity?” she said, 
in spiteful scorn. ‘ Ye buy the very life o’ us wi’ your shillings 
and sixpences, your groats and your boddles—ye hae garr’d 
the puir wretch speak till she swarfs, and now ye stand as if ye 
never saw a woman in a dwam before. Let me till her wi’ the 
dram—mony words mickle drought, ye ken—Stand out o’ my 
gate, my leddy, if sae be that ye are a leddy, there is little use 
of the like of you when there is death in the pot.” 

Lady Penelope, half affronted, but still more frightened by 
the manners of the old hag, now gladly embraced Lord Ether- 
ington’s renewed offer to escort her from the hut. He left it 
not, however, without bestowing an additional gratuity on the 
old woman, who received it with a whining benediction. 

“The Almighty guide your course through the troubles of 
this wicked warld—and the muckle deevil blaw wind in your 
sails,” she added, in her natural tone, as the guests vanished 
from her miserable threshold—“ A wheen cork-headed, barmy- 
brained gowks |! ! that wunna let puir folk sae muckle as die in 
quiet, wi’ their sossings and their soopings. i 

“ This poor creature’s declaration,” said Lord Etherington to 
Lady Penelope, “ seems to refer to matters which the law has 
nothing to do with, and which, perhaps, as they seem to im- 
plicate the peace of a family of respectability, and the charac- 
ter of a poune lady, we ought to inquire no further after.” 

* Note G. Parochial charity, 


330 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“T differ from. your lordship,” said Lady Penelope; “ I 
differ extremely—I suppose you guess whom. her discourse 
touched upon ?” 

“ Indeed, your ladyship does my acuteness by far too much 
honor.” 

“Did she not mention a Christian name?” ’ said Lady 
Penelope ; “ your lordship is strangely dull this morning ? ” 

“A Christian name ?>—No, none that I heard—yes, she said 
something about—a Catherine, I think it was.’ 

“ Catherine?” answered the lady; no, my lord, it was 
Clara—rather a rare name in this country, ‘and belonging, I 
think, to a young lady of whom your lordship should know 
something, unless your evening flirtations with Lady Binks have 
blotted entirely out of your memory your morning visits to 
Shaws Castle. You are a bold man, my lord. I would advise 
you to include Mrs. Blower among the. objects of! your atten- 
tion, and then you will have maid, wife, and widow upon your 
list.” 

‘* Upon my honor, your ladyship. is too severe,” ” said Lord 
Etherington ; ‘“ you surround yourself every evening with all 
that is clever and accomplished among the people here, and 
then you ridicule a poor secluded monster, who dare not ap- 
proach your charmed circle, because he seeks for some amuse- 
ment elsewhere. ‘This is to tyrannize and not to reign—it is 
Turkish despotism!” - 

“Ah! my lord, I know you well, my lord,’”,said Lady 
Penelope—‘ Sorry would your lordship be, had you not power 
to render yourself welcome to any circle which you may 
please to approach.” 

“That is to say,’ answered the lord, “ you will pardon me 
if I intrude on your ladyship’s coterie this evening?” 

“There is no society which Lord Etherington can think of 
frequenting, where he will not be a welcome ‘guest. 4 

‘“* I will plead, then, at once: my pardon and privilege: this 
evening—And now’ ’, (speaking as if he-had. succeeded. in 
establishing some confidence. with her ladyship), ‘what = Yon 
really think of this blind story ?””’ 

‘““ Oh, Iomust believe it concerns Miss Mowbray. ha was 
always an odd girl—something about her I. could: never endure 
—a. sort of effrontery—that is, perhaps, a harsh word; but a 
kindof assurance—an air of confidence—so that, though I kept 
on a footing with her because. she was|an orphan girl of good 
family; and because I really knew nothing expnsitinelg: bad of hen, 

et she sometimes absolutely shocked me.” |, 

** Your ladyship, perhaps, would not think it sinbt to give . 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 331 


publicity to the story? at least till you know exactly what it 
is,” said the Earl, in a tone of suggestion. 

“ Depend upon it, that it is quite the worst, the very worst 
—You heard the woman say that she had exposed Clara to 
ruin —and you know she must have meant Clara Mowbray, 
because she was so anxious to tell the story to her brother, St. 
Ronan’s,” 

“ Very true—lI did not think of that,” answered Lord Ether- 
ington ; ‘ still it would be hard on the poor girl if it should get 
abroad.” 

“ Oh, it will never get abroad for me,” said Lady Penelope; 
“ T would not tell the very wind of it. But then I cannot meet 
Miss Mowbray as formerly—I have a station in life to main- 
tain, my lord—-and I am under the necessity of being select in 
my society—it is a duty I owe the public, if it were even not my 
own inclination.” 

“ Certainly, my Lady Penelope,” said Lord Etherington ; 
“ but then consider that, in a place where all eyes are neces- 
sarily observant of your ladyship’s behavior, the least coldness 
on your part to. Miss Mowbray—and, after all, we have nothing 
like assurance of anything being wrong there—would ruin her 
with the company here, and with the world at large.” 

“ Oh! my lord,” answered Lady Penelope, “as for the truth 
of the story, I have some private reasons of my own for holding 
the strange tale devoutly true; for I hada mysterious hint 
from a very worthy, but a very singular man (your lordship 
knows how I adore originality), the clergyman of the parish, 
who made me aware there was something wrong about Miss 
Clara—something that—your lordship will excuse my speaking 
more plainly—Oh, no—lI fear—I fear it is all too true—You 
know Mr. Cargill, I.suppose, my Jord?” 

* Yes—no—I—I think I have seen him,” said Lord Ether- 
ington. “ But how came the lady» to make the parson) her 
father-confessor ?—they have no. auricular confession in the 
Kirk—it must have been with the purpose of marriage. I pre- 
sume—let us hope that it took place—perhaps it really was so 
—did he, Cargill—the minister, I mean—say anything of such 
a matter?” 

“Not a word—not a word—I see where you are, my lord; 
you would put a good face on’t. ; 


) 


‘ They call’d it marriage, by that specious name 
To veil the crime, and sanctify the shame.’ 


Queen Dido for that. How the clergyman came into the secret 


332 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


I cannot tell—he is a very close man.—But I know he will not 
hear of Miss Mowbray being married to any one, unquestion- 
ably because he knows that, in doing so, she would introduce 
disgrace into some honest family—and truly, I am much of his 
mind, my lord.” 

s Perhaps Mr. Cargill may know the lady is prbvatehy mar- 
ried already,” said the Earl; “I think that is the more natural 
inference, begging your ladyship’s pardon for presuming to 
differ in opinion.” 

Lady Penelope seemed determined not to take this view of 
the case. 

“ No, no—no, I tell you,’ she replied ; “ she cannot be 
married, for if she were married, how could the poor wretch say 
that she was ruined ?—You know there is a difference betwixt 
ruin and marriage.” 

‘‘ Some people are said to have found them synonymous, 
Lady Penelope,” answered the Earl. 

“* You are smart on me, my lord ; but still, in common par- 
lance, when we say a woman is ruined, we mean quite the con- 
trary of her being married—it is impossible for me to be more 
explicit upon such a topic, my lord.” 

“I defer to your ladyship’s better judgment,” said Lord 
Etherington. “ I only entreat you to observe a little caution 
in this business—I will make the strictest inquiries of this 
woman, and acquaint you with the result; and I hope, out of 
regard to the respectable family of St. Ronan’s, your ladyship 
will be in no hurry to intimate anything to Miss Mowbray’s 
prejudice.” 

‘T certainly am no person to spread: scandal, my lord,” 
answered the lady, drawing herself up ; “at the same time, I 
must say, the Mowbrays have little claim on me for forbearance. 
I am sure I was the first person to bring this Spa into fashion, 
which has been a matter of such consequence to their estate ; 
and yet Mr. Mowbray set himself against me, my lord, in every 
possible sort of way, and encouraged the underbred people 
about him to behave very strangely.—There was the business 
of building the Belvidere, which he would not permit to be done 
out of the stock-purse of the company because I had given the 
workmen the plan and the orders—and then, about the tea- 
room—and the hour for beginning dancing—and about the sub- 
scription for Mr. Rymour’s new Tale of Chivalry—in short, I 
owe no consideration to Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s.” 

“ But the poor young lady,” said Lord Etherington. 

“Oh! the poor young lady ?—the poor young lady can be as 
saucy as a rich young lady, I promise youu—There was a bust 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 333 


ness in which she used me scandalously, Lord Etherington—it 
was about a very trifling matter—a shawl. Nobody minds 
dress less than I do, my lord; I thank Heaven my thoughts 
turn upon very different topics—but it is in trifles that dis- 
respect and unkindness are shown; and I have had a full 
share of both from Miss Clara, besides a good deal of imper- 
tinence from her brother upon the same subject.” + 

“There is but one way remains,” thought the Earl, as they 
approached the Spa, ‘‘ and that.is to work on the fears of this 
d d vindictive blue-stocking’d wild-cat.— Your ladyship,” he 
said aloud, “is aware what severe damages have been awarded 
_ in late cases where something approaching to scandal has been 
traced to ladies of consideration—the privileges of the tea-table 
have been found insufficient to protect some fair critics against 
the consequences of too frank and liberal animadversion upon 
the characters of their friends. So pray, remember, that as yet 
we know very little on this subject.” 

Lady Penelope loved money, and feared the law ; and this 
hint, fortified by her acquaintance with Mowbray’s love of his 
sister, and his irritable and revengeful disposition, brought her 
in a moment much nearer the temper in which Lord Ethering- 
ton wished to leave her. She protested that no one could be 
more tender than she of the fame of the unfortunate, even sup- 
posing their guilt was fully proved—promised caution on the 
subject of the pauper’s declaration, and hoped Lord Ethering- 
ton would join her tea-party early in the evening, as she wished 
to make him acquainted with one or two of her protégés, whom, 
she was sure, his lordship would find deserving of his advice and 
countenance. Being by this time at the door of her own apart- 
ment, her ladyship took leave of the Earl with a most gracious 
smile. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRD. 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


On the lee-beam lies the land, boys, 
See all clear to reef each course; 
Let the foresheet go, don’t mind, boys, 
Though the weather should be worse. 
THE STORM. 


“Tr darkens round me like a tempest,” thought Lord 
Etherington, as with slow step, folded arms, and his white hat 
slouched over his brows, he traversed the short interval of 


334 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


space betwixt his own apartments and those of the Lady Pe- 
nelope. Ina buck of the old school, one of Congreve’s men of 
wit and pleasure about town, this would have been a departure 
from character; but the present fine man does not derogate 
from his quality, even by exhibiting all the moody and gentle- 
manlike solemnity of Master Stephen. So, Lord Etherington 
was at liberty to carry on his reflections, without attracting 
observation.—‘‘ I have put a stopper into the mouth of that old 
vinegar-cruet of quality, but the acidity of her temper will soon 
dissolve the charm—And what to do?”’ 

As he looked round -him, he saw his trusty valet Solmes, 
who, touching his hat with due respect, said, as he passed him, 
“Your Lordship’s letters are in your private despatch-box.” 

Simple as these words were, and indifferent the tone in 
which they were spoken, their import made Lord Etherington’s 
heart bound as if his fate had depended on the accents. He 
intimated no further interest in the communication, however, 
than to desire Solmes to be below, in case he should ring ; and 
with these words entered his apartment, and barred and bolted 
the door, even before he looked on the table where his de- 
spatch-box was placed. 

Lord Etherington had, as is usual, one key to the box which 
held his letters, his confidential servant being intrusted with 
the other; so that, under the protection of a patent lock, his 
despatches escaped all risk of being tampered with—a pre- 
caution not altogether unnecessary on the part of those who 
frequent hotels and lodging-houses. , 

‘“‘ By your leave, Mr. Bramah,”’ said the Earl, as he applied 
the key, jesting, as it were, with his own agitation, as he would 
have done with that of a third party. The lid was raised, and 
displayed the packet, the appearance and superscription of 
which had attracted his observation but a short while since in 
the post-office. Zhen. he would have given much to be pos- 
sessed of the opportunity which was now in his power; but 
many pause on the brink of a crime, who have contemplated it 
at a distance without scruple. Lord Etherington’s first impulse 
had led him to poke the fire; and he held in his hand the 
letter which he was more than half tempted to commit, without 
even breaking the seal, to the fiery element. But, though suff- 
ciently familiarized with guilt, he was not as yet acquainted 
with it in its basest shapes—he had not yet acted with mean- 
ness, or at least with what the world terms such. He had been 
a duelist, the manners of the age authorized it—a libertine, the 
world excused it to his youth and condition—a bold and suc 
cessful gambler, for that quality he was admired and envied; 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 335 


and a thousand other inaccuracies, to which these practices 
and habits lead, were easily slurred over in a man of quality, 
with fortune and spirit to support his rank. But his present 
meditated act was of a different kind. Tell it not in Bond 
Street, whisper it not on St. James’s pavement !—it amounted 
to an act of petty larceny, for which the code of honor would 
admit of no composition. 

Lord Etherington, under the influence of these recollections, 
stood for a few minutes suspended—But the devil always finds 
logic to convince his followers. He recollected the wrong done 
to his mother, and to himself, her offspring, to whom his father 
had, in the face of the whole world, imparted the hereditary 
rights, of which he was now, by a posthumous deed, endeavor- 
ing to deprive the memory of the one, and the expectations of 
the other. Surely, the right being his own, he had a full title, 
by the most effectual means, whatever such means might be, 
to repel all attacks on that right, and even destroy, if necessary, 
the documents by which his enemies were prosecuting their 
unjust plans against his honor and interest. 

This reasoning prevailed, and Lord Etherington again held 
the devoted packet above the flames; when it occurred to him, 
that, his resolution being taken, he ought to carry it into exe-. 
cution as effectually as possible ; and to do so, it was neces- 
sary to know that the packet actually contained the papers 
which he was desirous to destroy. 

Never did a doubt arise in juster time ; for no sooner had 
the seal burst and the envelope rustled under his fingers, 
than he perceived, to his utter consternation, that he held in 
his hand only the copies of the deeds for which Francis 
Tyrrel had written, the originals of which he had too sanguinely 
concluded would be forwarded according to his requisition. 
A letter from a partner of the house with which they were de- 
posited stated that they had not felt themselves at liberty, in 
the absence of the head of their firm, to whom these papers 
had been committed, to part with them even to Mr. Tyrrel, 
though they had proceeded so far as to open the parcel, and 
now transmitted to him formal copies of the papers contained 
in it, which they presumed would serve Mr. Tyrrel’s purpose 
for consulting counsel or the like. They themselves, in a case 
of so much delicacy, and in the absence of their principal part- 
ner, were determined to retain the originals, unless called to 
produce them in a court of justice. 

With a solemn imprecation on the formality and absurdity 
of the writer, Lord Etherington let: the letter of advice drop 
from his hand into the fire, and, throwing himself into a. chair, 


336 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


passed his hand across his eyes, as if their very power of sight 
had been blighted by what he had read. His title and his 
paternal fortune, which he thought but an instant before might 
be rendered unchallengeable by a single movement of his 
hand, seemed now on the verge of being lost forever. His 
rapid recollection failed not to remind him of what was less 
known to the world, that his early and profuse expenditure had 
greatly dilapidated his maternal fortune; and that the estate 
of Nettlewood, which five minutes ago he only coveted as a 
wealthy man desires increase of his store, must now be ac- 
quired, if he would avoid being a poor and embarrassed spend- 
thrift. ‘To impede his possessing himself of this property, 
fate had restored to the scene the penitent of the morning, 
who, as he had too much reason to believe, was returned to this 
neighborhood, to do justice to Clara Mowbray, and who was not 
unlikely to put the whole story of the marriage on its right 
footing. She, however, might be got rid of; and it might still 
be possible to hurry Miss Mowbray, by working on her fears, 
or through the agency of her brother, into a union with him 
while he still preserved the title of Lord Etherington. This, 
therefore, he resolved to secure, if effort or if intrigue could 
carry the point; nor was it the least consideration, that should 
he succeed, he would obtain over Tyrrel, his successful rival, 
such a triumph as would be sufficient to embitter the tranquil- 
ity of his whole life. 

In afew minutes his rapid and contriving invention had 
formed a plan for securing the sole advantage which seemed 
to remain open for him; and, conscious that he had no time 
to lase, he entered immediately upon the execution. 

The bell summoned Solmes to his lordship’s apartment, 
when the Earl, as coolly as if he had hoped to dupe his experi- 
enced valet by such an assertion, said, ‘‘ You have brought me 
a packet designed for some man at the Aultoun—let it be sent 
to him—Stay, I will re-seal it first.” 

He accordingly re-sealed the packet, containing all the 
writings, excepting the letter of advice (which he had burnt), 
and gave it to the valet, with the caution, ‘‘ I wish you would 
not make such blunders in future.” 

‘“T beg your lordship’s pardon—lI will take better care again 
—thought it was addressed to your lordship.” 

So answered Solmes, too knowing to give the least intelli- 
gence, far less to remind the Earl that his own directions had 
occasioned the mistake of which he complained. 

“ Solmes,” continued the Earl, ‘‘ you need not mention your 
blunder at the post-office; it would only occasion tattle in 


S77, RONAN’S WELL, 337 


this idle place—but be sure that the gentleman has his letter. 
And, Solmes, I see Mr. Mowbray walk across—ask him to 
dine with me to-day at five. I have a headache, and cannot 
face the clamor of the savages who feed at the public table. 
And—let me see—make my compliments to Lady Penelope 
Penfeather—I will certainly have the honor of waiting on 
her ladyship this evening to tea, agreeably to her very boring 
invitation received—write her a proper card, and word it your 
own way. Bespeak dinner for two, and see you have some of 
that batch of Burgundy.” 

The servant was retiring, when his master added, ‘‘ Stay a 
moment—I have a more important business than I have yet 
mentioned. Solmes, you have managed devilish ill about the 
woman Irwin!” 

“IT, my lord ?” answered Solmes. 

“Yes, you, sir—did you not tell me she had gone to the 
West Indies with a friend of yours, and did not I give them a 
couple of hundred pounds for passage-money ?” 

“Yes, my lord,” replied the valet. 

** Ay, but now it proves zo, my lord,” said Lord Etherington ; 
**for she has found her way back to this country in miserable 
plight—half-starved, and, no doubt, willing to do or say any- 
thing for a livelihood—How has this happened ?”’ 

“Biddulph must have taken her cash and turned her loose, 
my lord,” answered Solmes, as if he had been speaking of the 
most commonplace transaction in the world ; “but I know the 
woman’s nature so well, and am so much master of her history, 
that I can carry her off the country in twenty-four hours, and 
place her where she will never think of returning, provided your 
lordship can spare me so long.” 

“ About it directly—but I can tell you, that you will find 
the woman in a very penitential humor, and very ill in health 
to boot.” 

“T am sure of my game,” answered Solmes ; “ with submis: 


. sion to your lordship, I think if death and her good angel had 


hold of one of that woman’s arms, the devil and I could make 
a shift to lead her away by the other.” 

“ Away, and about it, then,” said Etherington. “ But, hark 
ye, Solmes, be kind to her, and see all her wants relieved. I 
have done her mischief enough—though nature and the devil 
had done half the work to my hand.” 

Solmes at length was permitted to withdraw to execute his 
various commissions, with an assurance that his services would 
not be wanted for the next twenty-four hours. 

“Soh !” said the Earl, as his agent withdrew, “ there is a 


338 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


spring put in motion which, well oiled, will move’ the whole 
machine—And here, in lucky time, comes Harry Jekyl—I hear 
his whistle on the stairs. . There is a silly lightness of heart 
about that fellow, which I envy while I despise it; but he is 
welcome now, for-I want him.” 

Jekylentered accordingly, and broke out with, “I am glad 
to see one of your fellows laying.a cloth for two in your parlor, 
Etherington—I was afraid you were going down among these 
confounded bores again to-day.” 

‘“‘ You are not to be one of the two, Hal,” answered Lord 
Etherington. 

“No ?—then I may be a third, I hope, if not second ?” 

“Neither first, second, nor third, Captain. The truth is, 
I want a déte-d-téte with Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s,” replied 
the Earl: “and, besides, I have to beg the very particular 
favor of, you to go again to that fellow Martigny. It is time 
that he should produce his papers, if he has any—of which, for 
one, I do not believe a word. He has had ample time to hear ~ 
from London ; and I think I have delayed long enough in an 
important matter upon his bare assertion.” 

“I cannot blame your impatience,” said Jekyl, “and I will 
go on your errand instantly. As you waited on my advice, I 
am bound to find an end to your:suspense. At the same time, 
if the man is not possessed of such papers as he spoke of, I 
must.own he is happy in a command of consummate assurance 
which might set up the whole roll of attorneys.” 

‘§ You will be soon able to judge of that,” said Lord Ether- 
ington ; ‘and now, off with you—Why do you look at me so 
anxiously 27 

“IT cannot tell—I have strange forebodings about this 
téte-a-téte with Mowbray. You should spare him, Etherington, 
—he is not your match—wants both judgment and temper.” 

“‘'Tell him so, Jekyl,” answered the Earl, ‘ and his proud 
Scotch stomach will be up in an instant, and he will pay you 
with a shot for your pains—Why, he thinks himself Cock of 
the walk, this strutting bantam, notwithstanding the lesson I 
gave him before—And what do you think ?—he has the im- 
pudence to talk about my attentions to Lady Binks as incon- 
sistent with the prosecution of my suit to his sister! Yes, 
Hal—this awkward Scotch laird, that has scarce tact enough 
to make love to a ewe-milker, or, at best, to some daggletailed 
soubrette, has the assurance to start himself as my rival ! ” 

“Then, good-night to St. Ronan’s!—this will be a fatal 
dinner to him.—Etherington, I know by that laugh you are bent 
on mischief—I have a great mind to give him a hint,” 


ST: RONAN’S WELL, 339 


“JT wish you would,” answered the Earl ; “ it would all turn 
to my account.” 

“Do you defy me ?—Well, if I meet him, I will put him on 
his guard.” 

The friends parted ; and it was not long ere Jekyl encoun- 
tered Mowbray on one of the public walks. 

“You dine with Etherington to-day?” said the Captain—~ 
“Forgive me, Mr. Mowbray, if I say one single word—Beware.” 

“Of what should I beware, Captain Jekyl,” answered Mow- 
bray, “when I dine with a friend of your own, and a man of 
honor?” 

“ Certainly Lord Etherington is both, Mr. Mowbray; but he 
loves play, and is too hard for most people.” 

* T thank you for your hint, Captain Jekyl—I am a raw Scot- 
tishman, it is true ; but yet I know a thing or two. Fair play 
is always presumed amongst gentleman ; and, that taken for 
granted, I have the vanity to think I need no one’s caution on 
the subject, not even Captain Jekyl’s, though his experience 
must needs be so much superior to mine.” 

“In that case, sir,” said Jekyl, bowing coldly, “I have no 
more to say, and I hope there is no harm done.—Conceited 
coxcomb !” he added, mentally, as they parted, “ how truly did 
Etherington judge of him, and what an ass was I to inter- 
meddle !—I hope Etherington will strip him of every feather.” 

He pursued his walk in quest of Tyrrel, and Mowbray pro- 
ceeded to the apartments of the Earl, in a temper of mind well 
suited to the purposes of the latter, who judged of his disposi- 
tion accurately when he permitted Jekyl to give his well-meant 
warning. ‘To be supposed, by a man of acknowledged fashion, 
so decidedly inferior to his antagonist—to be considered as an 
object of compassion, and made the subject of a good-boy 
warning, was gall and bitterness to his proud spirit, which, the 
more that he felt a conscious inferiority in the arts which they 
all cultivated, struggled the more to preserve the footing of at 
least apparent equality. 

Since the first memorable party at piquet, Mowbray had 
never hazarded his luck with Lord Etherington, except for trifling 
stakes ; but his conceit led him to suppose that he now fully un- 
derstood his play, and, agreeably to the practice of those who 
have habituated themselves to gambling, he had, every now and 
then, felt a yéarning to try for his revenge. He wished also to 
be out of Lord Etherington’s debt, feeling galled under a sense 
of pecuniary obligation, which hindered his speaking his mind 
to him fully upon the subject of his flirtation with Lady Binks, 
which he justly considered as an insult to his family, consider- 


340 _ ST RONAN'S WELL. 


ing the footing on which the Earl seemed desirous to stand with 
Clara Mowbray. From these obligations a favorable evening 
might free him, and Mowbray was, in fact, indulging in a waking 
dream to this purpose, when Jekyl interrupted him. His un- 
timely warning only excited a spirit of contradiction, and a de- 
termination to show the adviser how little he was qualified to 
judge of his talents ; and in this humor, his ruin, which was the 
consequence of that afternoon, was far from even seeming to 
be the premeditated, or even the voluntary, work of the Earl of 
Etherington. 

On the contrary, the victim himself was the first to propose 
play—deep play—double stakes; while Lord Etherington, on 
the other hand, often proposed to diminish their game, or to 
break off entirely ; but it was always with an affectation of supe- 
riority, which only stimulated Mowbray to further and more 
desperate risks ; and, atlast, when Mowbray became his debtor 
to an overwhelming amount (his circumstances considered), the 
Earl threw down the cards, and declared he should be too 
late for Lady Penelope’s tea-party, to which he was positively 
engaged. 

“Will you not give me my revenge?” said Mowbray, taking 
up the cards, and shuffling them with fierce anxiety. 

““ Not now, Mowbray; we have played too long already— 
you have lost too much—more than perhaps 1s convenient for 
you to pay.” 

Mowbray gnashed his teeth, in spite of his resolution to 
maintain an exterior, at least, of firmness. 

“You can take your time you know,” said the Earl; “a 
note of hand will suit me as well as the money.” 

“No, by G—!” answered Mowbray, “I will not be so 
taken in a second time—I had better have sold myself to the 
devil than to your lordship—I have never been my own man 
since.” 

“These are not very kind expressions, Mowbray,” said the 
Earl; “you would play, and they that will play must expect 
sometimes to lose”’ 

‘“‘And they who win will expect to be paid,” said Mowbray, 
breaking in. ‘I know that as well as you, my lord, and you 
shall be paid—I will pay you—I will pay you, by G—! Do 
you make any doubt that I will pay you, my lord?” 

“You look as if you thought of paying me in sharp coin,” 
said Lord Etherington; ‘‘and I think that would scarce be 
consistent with the terms we stand upon toward each other.” 

“By my soul,” said Mowbray, “I cannot tell what these 
terms are; and to be at my wit’s end at once, I should be glad 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 24t 


to know. You set out upon paying addresses to my sister and, 
with your visits and opportunities at Shaws Castle, I cannot 
find the matter makes the least progress—it keeps moving 
without advancing, like a child’s rocking-horse. Perhaps you 
think that you have curbed me up so tightly that I dare not 
stir in the matter; but you will find it otherwise.—Your lord- 
ship may keep a harem if you will, but my sister shall not 
enter it.” 

- Yow are angry, and therefore you are unjust,” said Ether 
ington; “you know well enough it is your sister’s fault that 
there is any delay. JI am most willi ng—most desirous to call 
her Lady Etherington—nothing but “her unlucky prejudices 
against me have retarded a union which I have so many rea- 
sons for desiring.” 

“Well,” replied Mowbray, “that shall be my business. I 
know no reason she can pretend to decline a marriage so hon- 
orable to her house, and which is approved of by me, that 
house’s head. The matter shall be arranged in twenty-four 
hours.” 

“It will do me the most sensible pleasure,” said Lord 
Etherington ; “ you shall soon see how sincerely I desire your 
alliance ; and as for the trifle you have lost”’ 

“Tt is no trifle to me, my lord—it is my ruin—but it shall 
be paid—and let me tell your lordship, you may thank your 
good luck for it more than your good play.” 

“We will say no more of it at present, if you please,” said 
Lord Etherington, “to-morrow is a new day; and if you will 
take my advice, you will not be too harsh with your sister. 
A little firmness is seldom amiss with young women, but 
severity ” 

“Twill pray your lordship to spare me your advice on this 
subject. However valuable it may be in other respects, I can 
I take it, speak to my own sister in my own way.” 

‘« Since you are so caustically disposed, Mowbray,” answered 
the Earl, ‘‘I presume you will not honor her ladyship’s tea- 
table to-night, though I believe it will be the last of the 
season ?”’ 

“And why should you think so, my lord?” answered Mow- 
bray, whose losses had rendered him testy and contradictory 
upon every subject that was started. ‘Why should not I pay 
my respects to Lady Penelope, or any other tabby of quality ? 
I have no title, indeed; but I suppose that my family ” 

“ Entitles you to become a canon of Strasburg, doubtless— 
But you do not seem in a very Christian mood. for taking 


342 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


orders. All I meant to say was, that you and Lady Pen were 
not used to be on such a good footing.” 

‘Well, she sent me a card for her blow-out,” said Movw- 
bray; ‘“‘and so I am resolved to go. When I have been there 
half-an-hour, I will ride up to Shaws Castle, and you shall hear 
cf my speed in wooing for you to-morrow morning.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURTH. 


A TEA-PARTY. 


Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round; 
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups 
That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each, 
Thus let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
COWPER’S TASK. 


THE approach of the cold and rainy season had now so far 
thinned the company at the Well, that, in order to secure the 
necessary degree of crowd upon her tea- nights, Lady Penelope 
was obliged to employ some coaxing toward those whom she 
had considered as much under par in society. Even the 
Doctor and Mrs. Blower were graciously smiled upon—for 
their marriage was now an arranged affair; and the event was 
of a nature likely to spread the reputation of the Spa among 
wealthy widows, and medical gentlemen of more skill than 
practice. So in they came, the Doctor smirking, gallanting, 
and performing all the bustling parade of settled and arranged 
courtship, with much of that grace wherewith a turkey-cock 
goes through the same ceremony. Old Touchwood had also 
attended her ladyship’s summons, chiefly, it may be supposed, 
from his restless fidgety disposition, which seldom suffered him 
to remain absent even from those places of resort of which he 
usually professed his detestation, ‘There was, besides, Mr. 
Winterblossom, who, in his usual spirit of quiet epicurism and 
quiet self-indulgence, was, under the fire of a volley of compli- 
ments to Lady Penelope, scheming to secure for himself an 
early cup of tea. There was Lady “Binks also, with the wonted 
degree of sullenness in her beautiful face, angry at her husband 
as usual, and not disposed to be pleased with Lord Etherington 
for being absent when she desired to excite Sir Bingo’s jealousy. 
This she had discovered to:be the most effectual way of tor- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 343 


menting the Baronet, and she rejoiced in it with the savage 
glee of a hackney coachman, who has found a raw, where he 
can make his poor jade feel the whip. ‘The rest of the com- 
yany were also in attendance as usual. MacTurk himself was 
present, notwithstanding that he thought it an egregious waste 
of hot water, to bestow it upon compounding any mixture, 
saving punch. He had of late associated himself a good deal 
with the traveler ; not that they by any means resembled each 
other in temper or opinions, but rather because there was that 
degree of difference betwixt them which furnished perpetual 
subject for dispute and discussion. ‘They were not long, on the 
present occasion, ere they lighted on a fertile source of con- 
troversy. 

“Never tell me of your points of honor,” said ‘Touchwood, 
raising his voice altogether above the general tone of polite 
conversation—“ all humbug, Captain MacTurk—mere _hair- 
traps to springe woodcocks—men of sense break through 
them.”’ 

“Upon my word, sir,” said the Captain, “and myself is 
surprised to hear you—for, look you, sir, every man’s honor is 
the breath of his nostrils—Cot tamn! ” 

“Then let men breathe through their mouths and be 
d—d,” returned the controversialist. ‘I tell you, sir, that, 
besides its being forbidden, both by law and gospel, it’s an 
idiotical and totally absurd practice, that of dueling. An 
honest savage has more sense than to practice it—he takes 
his bow or his gun, as the thing may be, and shoots his enemy 
from behind a bush. And a very good way; for you see there 
can, in that case, be only one man’s death between them.” 

“Saul of my body, sir,” said the Captain, “gin ye promul- 
gate sic doctrines among the good company, it’s my belief you 
will bring somebody to the gallows.” 

“Thank ye, Captain, with all my heart; but I stir up no 
quarrels—I leave war to them that live by it. I only say, 
that, except our old stupid ancestors in the north-west here, 
I know no country so silly as to harbor this custom of 
dueling. It is unknown in Africa, among the negroes—in 
America.” 

“Don’t tell me that,” said the Captain; ‘‘a Yankee will 
fight with muskets and buck-shot, rather than sit still with an 
affront. I should know Jonathan, I think.” 

“Altogether unknown among the thousand tribes of India.” 

“Tll be tamned, then!” said Captain MacTurk. ‘ Was I 
not in Tippoo’s prison at Bangalore? and, when the joyful day 
of our liberation came, did we not solemnize it with fourteen 


344 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


little affairs, whereof we had been laying the foundation in out 
house of captivity, as Holy Writ has it, and never went 
further to settle them than the glacis of the fort? By my 
soul, you would have thought there was a smart skirmish, the 
firing was so close; and did not I, Captain MacTurk, fight 
three of them myself, without moving my foot from the place 1 
set it on?” 

‘“¢ And pray, sir, what might be the result of this Christian 
mode of giving thanks for your deliverance?” demanded Mr. 
Touchwood. 

“A small list of casualties, after all,” said the Captain; 
‘one killed on the spot, one died of his wounds—two wounded 
severely—three ditto slightly, and little Duncan Macphail re- 
ported missing. We were out of practice, after such long 
confinement. So you see how we managed matters in India, 
my dear friend.” 

“You are to understand,” replied ‘Touchwood, “that I spoke 
only of the heathen natives, who, heathen as they are, live in 
the light of their own moral reason, and among whom ye shall 
therefore see better examples of practical morality than among 
such as yourselves; who, though calling yourselves Christians, 
have no more knowledge of the true acceptation and meaning 
of your religion than if you had left your Christianity at the 
Cape of Good Hope, as they say of you, and forgot to take it 
up when you came back again.” 

‘Py Cot! and I can tell you, sir,” said the Captain, elevat- 
ing at once his voice and his nostrils, and snuffing the air with 
a truculent and indignant visage, “ that I will not permit you 
or any man to throw any such scandal on my character. I 
thank Cot, I can bring good witness that I am as good a Chris- 
tian as another, for a poor sinner, as the best of us are; and I 
am ready to justify my religion with my sword—Cot tamn !— 
Compare my own self with a parcel of black heathen bodies 
and natives, that were never in the inner side of a kirk whilst 
they lived, but go about worshipping stocks and stones, and 
swinging themselves upon bamboos, like peasts, as they are!” 

An indignant growling in his throat, which sounded like 
the acquiescence of his inward man in the indignant propo- 
sition which his external organs thus expressed, concluded this 
haughty speech, which, however, made not the least impression 
on Touchwood, who cared as little for angry tones and looks as 
he did for fine speeches. So that it is likely a quarrel between 
the Christian preceptor and the peacemaker might have occur- 
red for the amusement of the company, had not the attention 
of both, but particularly that of Touchwood, been diverted 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 345 


from the topic of debate by the entrance of Lord Etherington 
and Mowbray. 

The former was, as usual, all grace, smiles, and gentleness. 
Yet, contrary to his wonted custom, which usually was, after a 
few general compliments, to attach himself particularly to Lady 
Binks, the Earl, on the present occasion, avoided the side of 
the room on which that beautiful but sullen idol held her sta- 
tion, and attached himself exclusively to Lady Penelope Pen- 
feather, enduring, without flinching, the strange variety of con- 
ceited davardage, which that lady’s natural parts and acquired 
information enabled her to pour forth with unparalleled pro- 
fusion. 

An honest heathen, one of Plutarch’s heroes if I mistake 
not, dreamed once upon a night, that the figure of Proserpina, 
whom he had long worshipped, visited his slumbers with an 
angry and vindictive countenance, and menaced him with ven- 
geance, in resentment of his having neglected her altars, with 
the usual fickleness of a Polytheist, for those of some more 
fashionable divinity. Not that goddess of the infernal regions 
herself could assume a more haughty or more displeased coun- 
tenance than that with which Lady Binks looked from time to 
time upon Lord Etherington, as if to warn him of the con- 
sequence of this departure from the allegiance which the 
young Earl had hitherto manifested toward her, and which 
seemed now, she knew not why, unless it were for the purpose 
of public insult, to be transferred to her rival. Perilous as her 
eye-glances were, and much as they menaced, Lord Ethering- 
ton felt at this moment the importance of soothing Lady Pene- 
lope to silence on the subject of the invalid’s confession of that 
morning, to be more pressing than that of appeasing the indig- 
nation of Lady Binks. The former was a case of the most 
urgent necessity—the latter, if he was at all anxious on the 
subject, might, he perhaps thought, be trusted to time. Had the 
ladies continued on a tolerable footing together, he might have 
endeavored to conciliate both. But the bitterness of their long 
suppressed feud had greatly increased, now that it was probable 
the end of the season was to separate them, in all likelihood 
forever ; so that Lady Penelope had no longer any motive for 
countenancing Lady Binks, or the lady of Sir Bingo for desir- 
ing Lady Penelope’s countenance. The wealth and lavish ex- 
pense of the one was no longer to render more illustrious the 
suit of her right honorable friend, nor was the society of Lady 
Penelope likely to be soon again useful or necessary to Lady 
Binks. So that neither were any longer desirous to suppress 
symptom of the mutual contempt and dislike which they had long 


346 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


nourished for each other; and whoever should, in this decisive 
hour, take part with one, had little henceforward to expect from 
her rival. What further and more private reasons Lady- Binks 
might have to resent the defection of Lord Etherington, have 
never come with certainty to our knowledge ; but it was said 
there had been high words between them on the floating report 
that his lordship’s visits to Shaws Castle were dictated by the 
wish to find a bride there. 

Women’s wits are said to be quick in spying the surest 
means of avenging a real or supposed slight. After biting 
her pretty lips, and revolving in her mind the readiest means 
of vengeance, fate threw in her way young Mowbray of St. 
Ronan’s. She looked at him, and endeavored to fix his 
attention with a nod and gracious smile, such as in an ordi- 
nary mood would have instantly drawn him to her side. On 
receiving in answer only a vacant glance and a bow, she was led 
to observe him more attentively, and was induced to believe, 
from his wavering look, varying complexion, and unsteady step, 
that he had been drinking unusually deep. Still his eye was 
less that.of an intoxicated than of a disturbed and desperate 
man, one whose faculties were engrossed by deep and turbid 
reflection, which withdrew him from the passing scene. 

‘“¢Do you observe how ill Mr. Mowbray looks?” said she, 
in a loud whisper; “I hope he has not heard what Lady Pe- 
nelope was just now saying of his family?” : 

“Unless he hears it from you, my lady,” answered Mr. 
Touchwood, who, upon Mow bray’ s entrance, had broken off his 
discourse with Mac Turk, “‘I think there is little chance of his 
learning it from any other person.” 

‘What is the matter?” said Mowbray, sharply, addressing 
Chatterly and Winterblossom ; but the one shrunk nervously 
from the question, protesting, he indeed had not been precisely 
attending to what had been passing among the ladies, and 
Winterblossom bowed out of the scrape with quiet and cautious 
politeness—‘‘ He really had not given particular attention to 
what was passing—lI was negotiating with Mrs. Jones for an 
additional lump of sugar to my coffee. Egad, it was so difficult 
a piece of diplomacy,” he added, sinking his voice ; ‘that I 
have an idea her ladyship calculates the West India produce by 
grains and pennyweights.” 

The innuendo, if designed to make Mowbray smile, was far 
from succeeding. He stepped forward, with more than usual 
stiffness in his air, which was never entirely free from self-con- 
‘sequence, and said to Lady Binks, ‘‘ May I request to know 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 3447 


of your ladyship what particular respecting my family had the 
honor to engage the attention of the company?” 

“J was only a listener, Mr. Mowbray,” returned Lady 
Binks, with evident enjoyment of the rising indignation which 
she read in his countenance ; “not being queen of the night, 
I am not at all disposed to be answerable for the turn of the 
conversation.” | 

Mowbray, in no humor to bear jesting, yet afraid to expose 
himself by further inquiry in a company so -public, darted a 
fierce look at Lady Penelope, then in close conversation with 
Lord Etherington,—advanced a step or two toward them,— 
then, as if checking himself, turned on his heel and left the 
room. A few minutes afterward, and when certain: satirical 
nods and winks were circulating among the assembly, a waiter 
slid a piece of paper into Mrs. Jones’s hand, who, on looking 
at the contents, seemed about to leave the room.’ 

-“Jones—Jones!” exclaimed Lady Penelope, in surprise 
and displeasure. 

“Only the key of the tea-caddie, your ladyship,” answered 
Jones ; “I will be back in an instant.” 

““Jones—Jones!” again exclaimed her mistress, ‘here is 
enough ”— of tea, she would have said ; but Lord Etherington 
was so near her, that she was ashamed to complete «the sen- 
tence, and had only hope in Jones’s quickness of apprehension, 
and the prospect that she would be unable to find the key 
which she went in search of. 

Jones, meanwhile, tripped off toa sort of housekeeper’s 
apartment, of which she was Zocum denens for the evening, for 
the more ready supply of whatever might be wanted on Lady 
Penelope’s night, as it was called. Here she found Mr. Mow- 
bray of St. Ronan’s, whom she instantly began to assail with 
“La! now, Mr. Mowbray, you are such another gentleman !—I 
am sure you will make me lose my place—I’ll swear you will— 
what can you have to say, that you could not. as well put off for 
an hour? ” 

“YT want to know, Jones,” answered Mowbray, in a different 
tone, perhaps, from what the damsel expected, ‘‘'what your 
lady was just now saying about my family?” 

‘‘Pshaw !—was that all?” answered Mrs. Jones. ‘“ What 
should she be saying-?—nonsense—Who minds what she says? 
I am sure I never do, for one.” 

Nay, but, my dear Jones,’ said Mowbray, “I insist upon 
knowing—I must know, and I w#d/ know.” 

“La! Mr, Mowbray, why should I make mischief ?—As I 


f 


348 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


live, I hear some one coming! and if you were found speaking 
with me here—indeed, indeed, some one is coming !” 

“The devil may come, if he will!’ said Mowbray, “ but we 
do not part, pretty mistress, till you tell me what I wish to 
know.” 

“Lord, sir, you frighten me!” answered Jones ; “ but all 
the room heard it as well as I—it was about Miss Mowbray— 
and that my lady would be shy of her company hereafter—for 
that she was—she was ”’—— ) 

“For that my sister was w/at?” said Mowbray, fiercely, 
seizing her arm. 

“‘ Lord, sir, you terrify me,” said Jones, beginning to cry ; 
“‘ at any rate, it was not I that said it—it was Lady Penelope.” 

“And what was it the old, adder-tongued madwoman dared 
to say of Clara Mowbray ?—Speak out plainly, and directly, or, 
by Heaven, I’ll make you!” 

“ Hold, sir—hold, for God’s sake !—you will break my arm,” 
answered the terrified handmaiden. “Iam sure I know no 
harm of Miss Mowbray ; only, my lady spoke as if she was no 
better than she ought to be.—Lord, sir, there is some one 
listening at the door !”—and making a spring out of his grasp, 
she hastened back to the room in which the company were 
assembled. 

Mowbray stood petrified at the news he had heard, igno- 
rant alike what could be the motive for a calummy so atro- 
cious, and uncertain what he were best do to put a stop to 
the scandal. To his further confusion, he was presently con- 
vinced of the truth of Mrs. Jones’s belief that they had been 
watched, for, as he went to the door of the apartment, he was 
met by Mr. Touchwood. 

“What has brought you here sir ?’”’ said Mowbray, sternly. 

“‘ Hoitie, toitie,”’ answered the traveler, “‘ why, how came 
you here, if you go to that, squire ?>—Egad, Lady Penelope is 
trembling for her souchong, so I just took a step here to save 
her ladyship the trouble of looking after Mrs. Jones in person, 
which, I think, might have been a worse interruption than 
mine Mr. Mowbray.” 

‘‘ Pshaw, sir, you talk nonsense,’’ said Mowbray ; “ the tea. 
room is so infernally hot, that I had sat down here a moment 
to draw breath, when the young woman came in.” 

‘“ And you are going to run away, now the old gentleman is 
come in,’ said Touchwood—‘‘Come, sir, I am more your 
friend than you may think.” 

‘« Sir, you are intrusive— I want nothing that you can give 
me,” said Mowbray. 


. 


ST, RONAN'S WELL, 349 


“ ‘That is a mistake,’’ answered the senior; “for I can 
supply you with what most young men want—money and 
wisdom.” 

“You will do well to keep both till they are wanted,” said 
Mowbray. 

“ Why, so I would, squire, only that I have taken something 
of afancy for your family; and they are supposed to have 
wanted cash and good counsel for two generations, if not for 
three.”’ 

“ Sir,” said Mowbray, angrily, “‘ you are too old either to play 
the buffoon or to get buffoon’s payment.” 

“Which is like monkey’s allowance, I suppose,” said the 
traveler, “* more kicks than halfpence.—Well—at least I am 
not young enough to quarrel with boys for bullying. Ill con- 
vince you, however, Mr. Mowbray, that I know some more of 
your affairs than what you give me credit for,” 

“ It may be,” answered Mowbray ; “ but you will oblige me 
more by minding your own.” 

** Very like; meantime, your losses to-night to my Lord 
Etherington are no trifle, and no secret neither.” 

“Mr. Touchwood, I desire to know where you had your 
information ? ” said Mowbray. 

** A matter of very little consequence compared to its truth 
or falsehood, Mr. Mowbray,” answered the old gentleman. 

** But of the last importance to me, sir,” said Mowbray. 
* In a word, had you such information by or through means of 
Lord Etherington ?—Answer me this single question, and then 
I shall know better what to think on the subject.” 

* Upon my honor,” said Touchwood, “* I neither had my 
information from Lord Etherington directly nor indirectly. I 
say thus much to give you satisfaction, and I now expect you 
will hear me with patience.” 

*“¢ Forgive me, sir,” interrupted Mowbray, “ one further ques- 
tion. Iunderstand something was said in disparagement of 
my sister just as I entered the tea-room ?” 

“ Hem—hem—hem,” said Touchwood, hesitating.. “ I am 
sorry your ears have served you so well—something there was 
said lightly, something that can be easily explained, I dare say ; 
—aAnd now, Mr. Mowbray, let me speak a few serious words 
with you.’ 

* And now, Mr. Touchwood, we have no more to say to 
each other—good evening to you.” 

He brushed past the “old man, who in vain endeavored to 
stop him, and, hurrying to the stable, demanded his horse. It 
was ready saddled, and waited his orders ; but even the short 


446 ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


time that was necessary to bring it to the door of the stable 
was exasperating to Mowbray’s impatience. Not less exasper- 
ating was the constant interceding voice of ‘Touchwood, who, in 
tones alternately plaintive and snappish, kept on a string of 
expostulations. 

“ Mr. Mowbray, only five words with you—Mr. Mowbray, 
you will repent this—Is this a night to ride in, Mr. Mowbray ? 
—My stars, sir, if you would but have five minutes’ patience !” 

Curses, not loud but deep, muttered in the throat of the im- 
patient laird, were the only reply, until his horse was brought 
out, when, staying no further question, he sprung into the saddle. 
The poor horse paid for the delay, which could not be laid to 
his charge. Mowbray struck him hard with his spurs as soon 
as he was in his seat—the noble animal reared, bolted, and 
sprung forward like a deer, over stock and stone, the nearest 
road—and we are aware it was a rough one—to Shaws Castle. 
There is a sort of instinct by which horses perceive the humor 
of their riders, and are furious and impetuous, or dull and 
sluggish, as if to correspond with it ; and Mowbray’s gallant 
steed seemed on this occasion to feel all the stings of his master’s 
internal ferment, although not again urged with the spur. The 
ostler stood listening to the clash of the hoofs succeeding each 
other in thick and close gallop, until they died away in the 
distant woodland. 

“Tf St. Ronan’s reach home this night, with his neck 
unbroken,” muttered the fellow, “ the devil must have it in 
keeping.” 

‘“‘ Mercy onus !”’ said the traveler, “he ripes like a Bedouin 
Arab ! but in the desert there are neither trees to cross the 
road, nor cleughs, nor lins, nor floods, nor fords. Well, I must 
set to work myself, or this gear will get worse than even I can 
mend.—Here you, ostler, let me have your best pair of horses 
instantly to Shaws Castle.” 

“To Shaws Castle, sir ? ” said the man, with some surprise. 

‘““'Yes—do you not know such a place ?” 

‘In troth, sir, sae few company go there, except on the great 
ball day, that we have had time to forget the road to it—but 
St. Ronan’s was here even now, sir.” 

“Ay, what of that ?—he has ridden on to get supper ready 
—so, turn out, without loss of time.”’ 

‘‘ At your pleasure, sir,” said the fellow, and called to the 
postilion accordingly, 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 351 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIFTH. 


DEBATE, 
Sedet post equitem atra cura— 


Still though the headlong cavalier, 
O’er rough and smooth, in wild career, 
Seems racing with the wind, 
His sad companion,—ghastly pale, 
And darksome as a widow’s veil, 
CARE—keeps her seat behind. 
HORACE, 


WELL was it that night for Mowbray, that he had always 
piqued himself on his horses, and that the animal on which he 
was then mounted was as sure-footed and sagacious as he was 
mettled and fiery. For those who observed next day the print 
of the hoofs on the broken and rugged track through which the 
creature had been driven at full speed by his furious master, 
might easily see, that in more than a dozen of places the horse 
and rider had been within a few inches of destruction. One 
bough of a gnarled and stunted oak-tree, which stretched across 
the road, seemed in particular to have opposed an almost fatal 
barrier to the horseman’scareer. In striking his head against 
this impediment, the force of the blow had been broken in some 
measure by a high-crowned hat, yet the violence of the shock 
was sufficient to shiver the branch to pieces. Fortunately it 
was already decayed; but, even in that state, it was subject of 
astonishment to every one that no fatal damage had. been 
sustained in so formidable an encounter. Mowbray himself was 
unconscious of the accident. 

Scarcely aware that he had been riding at an unusual rate, 
scarce sensible that he had ridden faster perhaps than ever he 
followed the hounds, Mowbray alighted at his stable door, and 
flung the bridle to his groom, whc held up his hands in astonish- 
ment when he beheld the condition of the favorite horse; but, 
concluding that his master must be intoxicated, he prudently 
forbore to make any observations. 

No sooner did the unfortunate traveler suspend that rapid 
motion, by which he seemed to wish to annihilate, as far as 
possible, time and space, in order to reach the place he had now 
attained, that it seemed to him as if he would have given the 
world that sees and deserts had lain between him and the house 


352 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


of his fathers, as well as that only sister with whom he was now 
about to have a decisive interview. 

‘But the place and the hour are arrived,” he said, biting 
his lip with anguish; “ this explanation must be decisive ; and 
whatever evils may attend it, suspense must be ended now, at 
once and for ever.” 

He entered the Castle, and took the light from the old 
domestic, who, hearing the clatter of his horse’s feet, had 
opened the door to receive him. 

“Ts my sister in her parlor?” he asked, but in so hollow a 
voice, that the old man only answered ap question by another, 
“Was his honor well ? ” 

“Quite well, Patrick—never better in my life,” said Mow. 
bray; and turning his back on the old man, as if to prevent his 
observing whether his countenance and his words corresponded, 
he pursued his way to his sister’s apartment. The sound of 
his step upon the passage roused Clara from a reverie, perhaps 
a sad one; and she had trimmed her lamp, and stirred her fire, 
so slow did he walk, before he at length entered her apartment. 

“You are a good boy, brother,” she said, “to come thus 
early home ; and I have some good news for your reward. The 
groom has fetched back Trimmer—He was lying by the dead 
hare, and he had chased him as far as Drumlyford—the shepherd 
had carried him to the shieling, till some one should claim 
him.” 

“T would he had hanged him, with all my heart!” said 
Mowbray. 

‘* How ?—hang Trimmer ?—your favorite Trimmer, that has ~ 
beat the whole country ?—and it was only this morning you 
were half crying because he was amissing and like to murder 
man and mother’s son?” 

“The better I like any living thing,” answered Mowbray, 
“the more reason I have for wishing it dead ana at rest; for 
neither I, nor anything that I love, will ever be happy more.” 

“You cannot frighten me, Jolin, with these flights,” an- 
swered Clara, trembling, although she endeavored to look un- 
concerned—“ You have used me to them too often.” 

“Jt is well for you, then; you will be ruined without the 
shock of surprise.” 

‘So much the better—We have been,” said Clara, 


*«¢ So constantly in poortith’s sight, 
The thoughts on’t gie us little fright.’ 


So say I with honest Robert Burns.” 
‘““D—n Burns and his trash!” said Mowbray, with the im- 


wre 


; 
ST. RONAN’S WELL. 383 


patience of a man determined to be angry with everything but 
himself, who was the real source of the evil. 

“And why damn poor Burns?” said Clara composedly ; 
“it is not his fault if you have not risena winner, for that, I 
suppose, is the cause of all this uproar.” 

“ Would it not make any one lose patience,” said Mow- 
bray, ‘‘ to hear her quoting the rhapsodies of a hobnailed peas- 
ant, when a man is speaking of the downfall of an ancient 
house? Your ploughman, [ suppose, becoming one degree 
poorer than he was born to be, would only go without his dinner, 
or without his usual potation of ale. His comrades would cry 
‘poor fellow !’ and let him eat out of their kit, and drink out of 
their bicker without scruple, till his own was full again. But 
the poor gentleman—the downfallen man of rank—the degraded 
man of birth—the disabled and disarmed man of power !—it is 
he that is to be pitied, who loses not merely drink and dinner, 
but honor, situation, credit, character, and name itself !” 

“You are declaiming in this manner in order to terrify me,” 
said Clara ; “but, friend John, I know you and your ways, and 
I have made up my mind upon all contingencies that can. take 
place. I will tell you more—I have stood on this tottering 
pinnacle of rank and fashion, if our situation can be termed such, 


_ till my head is dizzy with the instability of my eminence; and I 
-feel the strange desire of tossing myself down, which the devil 


is said to put “into folk’s heads when they stand on the top of 
steeples—at least, I had rather the plunge were over.’ 

“ Be satisfied, then; if that will satisfy you—the plunge zs 
over, and we are—what they used to call it in Scotland—gentle 
beggars, creatures to whom our second, and third, and fourth, 
and fifth cousins may, if they please, give a place at the side- 
table, and a seat in the carriage with the lady’s-maid, if driving 
backward will not make us sick.” 

“They may give it to those who will take it,” said Clara ; 
“Dut Iam determined to eat bread of my own buying—I can 
do twenty things, and I am sure some one or other of them will 
bring me all the little money I will need. I have been trying, 
John, for several months, how little I can live upon, and you 
would laugh if you heard how low I have brought the account.” 

“There is a difference, Clara, between fanciful experiments 
and real poverty—the one is a masquerade, which we can end 
when we please, the other is wretchedness for life.” 

“‘ Methinks, brother,” replied Miss Mowbray, “ it would be 
better for you to set me an example how to carry my good 
resolutions into effect, than to ridicule them.” 

“Why, what would you have me do?” said he, fiercely— 


354 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“turn postilion, or rough-rider, or whipper-in ?—I don’t know 
anything else that my education, as I have used it, has fitted 
me for—and then some of my old acquaintance would, I dare 
say; give me a crown to drink now and then for old acquaint: 
ance’ sake.” | 

“This is not the way, Johii, that men of sense think or 
speak of serious misfortunes,” answered his sister; ‘and I do 
not believe that this is so serious as it is your pleasure to 
make it.” 

“‘ Believe the very worst you can think,” replied he, “and 
you will not believe bad enough !—You have neither a guinea, 
nor a house, nor a friend’;—pass but a day, and it is a chance 
that you will not have a brother.” 

‘My dear John, you have drunk hard—rode hard.” 

““Yes—such tidings deserved to be carried express, 
especially to a young lady who receives them so well,” an- 
swered Mowbray bitterly. ‘I suppose, now, it will make no 
impression, if I were to tell you that you have it in your power ~ 
to stop all this ruin?” 

“By consummating my own, I suppose—Brother, I said 
you could not make me tremble, but you have found a way to 
do it.” 

‘“What, you expect I am again to urge you with Lord 
Etherington’s courtship ?—-That mzght have saved all, indeed— 
But that day of grace is over.” | 

“Tam glad of it, with all my spirit,” said Clara; “may it 
take with it all that we can quarrel about !—But till this in- 
stant, I thought it was for this very point that this long voyage 
was bound, and: that you were endeavoring to persuade me of 
the reality of the danger of the storm, in order to recone me 
to. the harbor.” 

‘You are mad, I think, in earnest,” said Mowbray “can 
you really be so absurd as to rejoice that you have no way left 
to relieve yourself and me from ruin, want, and shame?” 

“From shame, brother?” said Clara. ‘‘ No shame in hon 
est poverty, I hope.” 

“That is according as folks have used their erokecn a 
Clara.—I must speak to the point.—There are strange reports 
going below—By Heaven! they are enough to disturb the 
ashes of the dead! Were I to mention them, I should’ expect 
our poor mother to enter the room—Clara Mowbray, can. you 
guess what I’ mean? ” 

It was with the utmost exertion, yet in a faltering: voice, 
that she was able, after an ineffectual effort, to utter the mono- 
syllable, “Vol” 


toa ee ae ee 
z : 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 355 


* By Heaven! I am ashamed—I am even afraid to express 
my own meaning !—Clara, what is there which makes you so 
obstinately reject every proposal of marriage ?>—Is it that you 
feel yourself unworthy to be the wife of an honest man ?— 
Speak out !—Evil Fame has been busy with your reputation— 
speak out !—Give me the right to cram their lies down the 
throats of the inventors, and when I go among them to-mor- 
row, I shall know how to treat those who cast reflections on 
you! The fortunes of our house are ruined, but no tongue 
shall slander its honor.—Speak—speak, wretched girl! why 
are you silent?” 

“Stay at home, brother,” said Clara; ‘stay at home, if 
you regard our house’s honor—murder cannot mend misery—- 
Stay at home, and let them talk of me as they mill they can 
scarcely say worse of me than I deserve !” 

The passions of Mowbray, at all times ungovernably strong, 
were at present inflamed by wine, by his rapid journey, and the 
previously disturbed state of his mind. He set his teeth, 
clenched his hands, looked on the ground, as one that forms 
some horrid resolution, and muttered almost unintelligibly, ‘ It 
were charity to kill her.” 

“Oh! no—no—no !” exclaimed the terrified girl, throwing 
herself at his feet; “do not kill me, brother! I have wished 
for death—thought of death—prayed for death—but, oh! it is 
frightful to think that he is near—Oh! not a bloody death, 
brother, nor by your hand!” 

She held him close by the knees as she spoke, and expressed 
in her looks and accents the utmost terror. It was not, indeed, 
without reason ; for the extreme solitude of the place, the violent 
and inflamed passions of her brother, and the desperate circum- 
stances to which he had reduced himself, seemed all to concur 
to render some horrid act of violence not an improbable termi- | 
nation of this strange interview. 

Mowbray folded his arms, without unclenching his hands, 
or raising his head, while his sister continued on the floor, 
clasping him round the knees with all her strength, and begging 
piteously for her life and for mercy. 

“Fool!” he said at last, “let me go!—Who cares for thy 
worthless life ?—who cares if thou live or die? Live, if thou 
canst—and be the hate and scorn of every one else, as much 
as thou art mine!” 

He grasped her by the shoulder, with one hand pushed her 
from him, and as she arose from the floor, and again pressed 
to throw her arms around his neck, he repulsed her with his 
arm and hand, with a push—or blow—it might be termed either 


356 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


one or the other—violent enough, in her weak state, to have 
again extended her on the ground, had not a chair received her 
as she fell. He looked at her with ferocity, grappled a moment 
in his pocket; then ran to the window, and throwing the sash 
violently up, thrust himself as far as he could without falling 
into the open air. ‘Terrified, and yet her feelings of his unkind- 
ness predominating even above her fears, Clara continued to 
exclaim. 

“Oh, brother, say you did not mean this !—Oh, say you did 
not mean to strike me !—Oh, whatever I have deserved, be not 
you the executioner !—It is not manly—it is not natural—there 
are but two of us in the world!” 

He returned no answer; and, observing that he continued 
to stretch himself from the window, which was in the second 
storey of the building, and overlooked the court, a new cause 
of apprehension mingled, in some measure, with her personal 
fears. ‘Timidly, and with streaming eyes and uplifted hands, 
she approached her angry brother, and fearfully yet firmly seized 
the skirt of his coat, as if anxious to preserve him from the 
effects of that despair, which so lately seemed turned against 
her, and now against himself. 

He felt the pressure of her hold, and drawing himself angrily 
back, asked her sternly what she wanted. 

“Nothing,” she said, quitting her hold of his coat; ‘ but 
what—what did he look after so anxiously ?” 

“After the devil!” he answered, fiercely ; then drawing in 
his head, and taking her hand, ‘‘ By my soul, Clara—it is true, 
if ever there was truth in such a tale !—He stood by me just 
now, and urged me to murder thee !—What else could have put 
my hunting-knife into my thought ?>—Ay, by God, and into my 
very hand—at such a moment ?—Yonder I could almost fancy 
I see him fly, the wood, and the rock, and the water, gleaming 
back the dark-red furnace-light, that is shed on them by his 
dragon wings! By my soul, I can hardly suppose it fancy !— 
I can hardly think but that I was under the influence of an 
evil spirit—under an act of fiendish possession! But gone as 
he is, gone let him be—and thou, too ready implement of evil, 
be thou gone after him!” He drew from his pocket his right 
hand, which had all this time held his hunting-knife, and threw 
the implement into the courtyard as he spoke; then, with a 
mournful quietness and solemnity of manner, shut the window, 
and led his sister by the hand to her usual seat, which her 
tottering steps scarce enabled her to reach. — ‘ Clara,’’ he said, 
after a pause of mournful silence, “we must think what is to 
be done, without passion or violence—there may be something 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 357 


for us in the dice yet, if we do not throw away our game. A 
blot is never a blot till it is hit—dishonor concealed is not dis- 
honor in some respects.—Dost thou attend to me, wretched 
girl >” he said, suddenly and sternly raising his voice. 

“Yes, brother—yes indeed, brother,” she hastily replied, 
terrified even by delay again to awaken his ferocious and un- 
governable temper. 

“Thus it must be then,” he said, ‘‘ You must marry this 
Etherington—there is no help for it, Clara—You cannot 
complain of what your own vice and folly have rendered in- 
evitable.”’ 

“But, brother ”’——said the trembling girl. 

“ Be silent. I know all that you would say. You love him 
not, you would say. I love him not, no more than you. Nay, 
what is more, he loves you not——if he did, I might scruple to 
give you to him, you being such as you have owned yourself. 
But you shall wed him out of hate, Clara—or for the interest 
of your family——-or for what reason you will—But wed him 
you shall and must.” 

“ Brother—dearest brother—one single word!” 

“ Not of refusal or expostulation—that time is gone by,” said 
her brother. ‘When I believed thee what I thought thee this 
morning, I might advise you, but I could not compel. But 
since the honor of our family has been disgraced by your means, 
it is but just, that, if possible, its disgrace should be hidden; 
and it shall,—ay, if selling you for a slave would tend to con- 
ceal it!” 

“You do worse—you do worse by me !—A slave in an open 
market may be bought by a kind master—you do not give me 
that chance—you wed me to one who” 

‘Fear him not, nor the worst that he can do, Clara,” said 
her brother. ‘I know on what terms he marries; and, being 
once more your brother, as your obedience in this matter will 
make: me, he had better tear his flesh from his bones with his 
own teeth, than do thee any displeasure! By Heaven, I hate 
him so much—for he has outreached me every way—that me- 
thinks it is some consolation that he will not receive in thee the 
excellent creature I thought thee !—Fallen as thou art, thou 
art still too good for him.” 

Encouraged by the more gentle and almost affectionate tone 
in which her brother spoke, Clara could not help saying, although 
almost in a whisper, ‘‘ I trust it will not-be so—lI trust he will 
consider his own condition, honor, and happiness, better than 
to share it with me.’ 

“ Let him utter such ascruple if he dares,” said Mowbray— 


358 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


“But he dares not hesitate—he knows that the instant he 
recedes from addressing you, he signs his own death-warrant or 
mine, or perhaps that of both ; and his views, too, are of a kind 
that will not be relinquished on a point of scrupulous delicacy 
merely. Therefore, Clara, nourish no such thought in your 
heart as that there is the least possibility of your escaping such 
a marriage !—The match is booked — Swear you will not 
hesitate.” 

‘‘T will not,” she said, almost breathlessly, terrified lest he 
was about to start once more into the fit of unbridled fury which 
had before seized on him. 

‘‘Do not even whisper or hint an objection, but submit to 
your fate, for it is inevitable.” 

“‘ T will—submit ”—-answered Clara, in the same trembling 
accent. 

“And I,” he said, ‘‘ will spare you—at least at present—and 
it may be forever—all inquiry into the guilt which you have 
confessed. Rumors there were of misconduct, which reached 
my ears even in England; but who could have believed them 
that looked on you daily, and witnessed your late course of life ? 
-—On this subject I will be at present silent—perhaps may not 
again touch on it—that is, if you do nothing to thwart my 
pleasure, or to avoid the fate which circumstances render un- 
avoidable.—And now it is late—retire, Clara, to your hbed— 
think on what I have said as what necessity has determined, 
and not my selfish pleasure.” | 

He held out his hand, and she placed, but not without re- 
luctant terror, her trembling palm inhis. In this manner, and 
with a sort of mournful solemnity, as if they had been in at- 
tendance upon a funeral, he handed his sister through a gallery 
hung with old family pictures, at the end of which was Clara’s 
bed-chamber. The moon, which at this moment looked out 
through a huge volume of mustering clouds that had long been 
boding storm, fell on the two last descendants of that ancient 
family, as they glided hand in hand, more like the ghosts of the 
deceased than like living persons, through the hall and amongst 
the portraits of their forefathers. ‘The same thoughts were in 
the breasts of both, but neither attempted to say, while they 
cast a flitting glance on the pallidand decayed representations, 
““How little did these anticipate this catastrophe of their 
house!” At the door of the bedroom Mowbray quitted his sister’s 
hand, and said, ‘‘ Clara, you should to-night thank God, that 
saved you from a great danger, amd me from a deadly sin.” 

“T will,” she answered—‘ I will.” And, as if her terror had 
been anew excited by this allusion to what had passed, she bid 


ST. RONAN’'S WELL. 359 


her brother hastily good-night, and was no sooner within her 
apartment, than he heard her turn the key in the lock, and draw 
two bolts besides. 

“I understand you, Clara,” muttered Mowbray between his 
teeth, as he heard one bar drawn after another. “ Butif you 
could earth yourself under Ben Nevis, you could not escape 
what fate has destined for you.u—Yes!”’ he said ‘to himself, as he 
walked with slow and moody pace through the moonlit gallery, 
uncertain whether to return to the parlor, or to retire to his 
solitary chamber, when his attention was roused by a noise in 
the courtyard. 

The night was not indeed far advanced, but it had been so 
long since Shaws Castle received a guest, that, had Mowbray 
not heard the rolling of wheels in the courtyard, he might have 
thought rather of housebreakers than of visitors. But, as the 
sound of a carriage and horses was distinctly heard, it instant- 
ly occurred to him, that the guest must be Lord Etherington, 
come, even at this late hour, to speak with him on the reports 
which were current to his sister’s prejudice, and perhaps to 
declare his addresses to her were at an end. Eager to know 
the worst, and to bring matters to a decision, he re-entered the 
apartment he had just left, where the lights were still burning, 
and, calling loudly to Patrick, whom he heard in communing 
‘with the postilion, commanded him to show the visitor to Miss 
Mowbray’s parlor. It was not the light step of the young 
nobleman which came tramping, or rather stamping, through 
the long passage, and up the two or three steps at the end of 
it. Neither was it Lord Etherington’s graceful figure which 
was seen when the door opened, but the stout square substance 
of Mr, Peregrine ‘Touchwood. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH. 


A RELATIVE, 


Claim’d kindred there, and had his claim allow’d. 
DESERTED VILLAGE. 


STARTING at the unexpected and undesired apparition which 
presented itself in the manner described at the end of the last 
‘chapter, Mowbray yet felt, at the same time, a kind of relief 
that his meeting with Lord Etherington, painfully decisive as 


360 ST. RONAN'S WELL. 


that meeting must be, was for a time suspended. So it was with 
a mixture of peevishness and internal satisfaction that he de- 
manded what had procured him the honor, of a visit from Mr. 
Touchwood at this late hour. 

“‘ Necessity that makes the old wife trot,” replied Touch- 
wood ; “no choice of mine, I assure you—Gad, Mr. Mowbray, 
I would rather have crossed Saint Gothard than run the risk I 
have done to-night, rumbling through your breakneck roads in 
that d—d old wheelbarrow. On my word, I believe I must be 
troublesome to your butler for a draught of something—I am 
as thirsty as a coal-heaver that is working by the piece. You 
have porter, I suppose, or good old Scotch twopenny ? ” 

With a secret execration on his visitor’s effrontery, Mr. 
Mowbray ordered the servant to put down wine and water, of 
which Touchwood mixed a gobletful, and drank it off. 

“*We are a small family,” said his entertainer; ‘and I am 
seldom at home—still more seldom receive guests when I 
chance to be here—I am sorry I have no malt liquor, if 
you prefer it.” 

“ Prefer it?” said Touchwood, compounding, however, an- 
other glass of sherry and water, and adding a large piece of 
sugar, to correct the hoarseness which, he observed, his night 
journey might bring on,—“ to be sure I prefer it, and so does 
everybody, except Frenchmen and dandies. No offence, Mr. 
Mowbray, but you should order a hogshead from Meux—the 
brown-stout, wired down for exportation to the colonies, keeps 
for any length of time, and in every climate—I have drunk it 
where it must have cost a guinea a quart, if interest had been 
counted.” 

‘When I expect the honor of a visit from you, Mr. Touch- 
wood, I will endeavor to be better provided,” answered Mow- 
bray ; ‘fat present your arrival has been without notice, and I 
would be glad to know if it has any particular object.” 

“This is what I call coming to the point,” said Mr. Touch- 
wood, thrusting out his stout legs, accoutred as they were with 
the ancient defences, called boot-hose, so-as to rest his heels 
upon the fender. “Upon my life, the fire turns the best 
flower in the garden at this season of the year—I’ll take the 
freedom to throw on a log.—Is it not a strange thing, by the 
by, that one never sees a fagot in Scotland? You have much 
small wood, Mr. Mowbray, I wonder you do not get some fel- 
low from the midland counties to teach your people how to 
make a fagot.” 

‘Did you come all the way to Shaws Castle,” asked Mow- 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 361 


bray, rather testily, “to instruct me in the mystery of fagot- 
making?” 

_ “Not exactly—not exactly,” answered the undaunted 
Touchwood ; “ but there is a right and a wrong way in every- 
thing—a word by the way, on any useful subject, can never fall 
amiss.—As for my immediate and more pressing business, I 
can assure you that it is ofa nature sufficiently urgent, since it 
brings me to a house in which I am much surprised to find 
myself.” 

“The surprise is mutual, sir,” said Mowbray, gravely, ob- 
serving that his guest madea pause ; “it is full time you should 
explain it.” 

_ “Well, then,” replied Touchwood, “I must first ask you 
whether you have never heard of acertain old gentleman called 


‘Scrogie, who took it into what he called his head, poor man, to 


be ashamed of the name he bore, though owned by many honest 
and respectable men, and chose to join it to your surname of 
Mowbray, as having a more chivalrous Norman sounding, and, 
in a word, a gentleman-like twang with it?” 

mg} have heard of. such a person, though only lately, 


”? 


said 


“Mowbray. “Reginald Scrogie Mowbray was his name. I 


have reason to consider his alliance with my family as undoubt- 


ed, though you seem to mention it with asneer, sir. I believe 
‘Mr. S. Mowbray regulated his family settlements very much 


upon the idea that his heir was to intermarry with our house.” 
“True, true, Mr. Mowbray,” answered Touchwood ; “ and 
certainly it is not your business to lay the axe to the root of 
the genealogical tree, that is like to bear golden apples for you 
—Ha!” 
“Well, well, sir—proceed—proceed,” answered Mowbray. 
“You may also have heard that this old gentleman had a 
son, who would willingly have cut up the said family tree into 


fagots ; who though Scrogie sounded as well as Mowbray, and 


had no fancy for an imaginary gentility which was to be at- 
tained by the change of one’s natural name, and the disowning, 


as it were, of one’s actual relations ?”’ 


“T think I have heard from Lord Etherington,” answered 
Mowbray, “‘ to whose communications I owe most of my knowl- 
edge about these Scrogie people, that old Mr. Scrogie Mow- 
bray was unfortunate in a son, who thwarted his father on 
every occasion,—would embrace no opportunity which fortu- 
nate chances held out, of raising and distinguishing the family, 
—had imbibed low tastes, wandering habits, and singular ob- 
hee of pursuit,—on account of which his father disinherited 

im.”’ 


~ 


362 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


“Tt is very true, Mr. Mowbray,” proceeded ‘Touchwood, 
“ that this person did happen to fall under. his father’s dis- 
pleasure, because he scorned forms and ' flummery,—loved 
better to make money as an honest merchant, than to throw it 
away as an idle gentleman,—never called a coach when walk- 
ing on foot would serve the turn,—and liked the Royal Ex- 
change better than St. James?s Park. In short, his father dis- 
inherited him, because he had the qualities for doubling the 
estate, rather than those for squandering it.” 

“All this may be quite correct, Mr. Touchwood, ” replied 
Mowbray ; “ but, pray, what has this Mr. Scrogie junior to do 
with you or me? ” 

“Do with you or me!” said Touchwood, as if surprised at 
the question ; “ he has a great deal to do- with: me at least, 
since I am the very man myself.” 

“The devil you are,” said Mowbray, opening wide his eyes 
in turn; “* Mr. A—a—your name is Touchwood—P. Touch- 
wood—Paul, I suppose, or Peter—I read it so in the subscrip- 
tion book at the Well.” 

“ Peregrine, sir, Peregrine—my mother would have me so 
christened, because Peregrine Pickle came out during her con- 
finement ; and my poor foolish father acquiesced, because he 
thought it genteel, and derived from the Willoughbies. I don’t 
like it, and I always write P. short, and you might have re- 
marked an S. also before thé surname—I use at present P. S. 
Touchwood. I had an old acquaintance in the city who loved 
his jest—he always called me Postscript Touchwood.” 

“Then, sir,’’ said Mowbray, “if you are really Mr. Scro- 
gie, tout court, I must suppose the name. of. Touchwood is 
assumed ? ” 

“What the devil!” replied Mr. P. S. Touchwood, “ do you 
suppose there is no name in the English nation will couple up 
legitimately with my paternal name of Scrogie, except your 
own, Mr. Mowbray ?—I assure you I got the name of ‘Touch- 
wood, and a pretty spell of money along with it, from an old 
godfather, who admired my spirit in sticking by commerce.” 

“Well, sir, every one has his taste—many would have 
thought it better to enjoy a hereditary estate, by keeping your 
father’s name of Mowbray, than to have gained another by 
assuming a stranger’s name of ‘Touchwood. ? 

“Who told you Mr. Touchwood was a stranger to me?” 
said the traveler; ‘for aught I know, he had a better title to the 
duties of a son from me, that the poor old man who made 
such a fool of himself, by trying to turn gentleman in his old 
age. He was my grandfather’s partner in the great firm of 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 363 


Touchwood, Scrogie, and Co.—Let me tell you, there is as 
good inheritance in house as in field—a man’s partners are his 
fathers and brothers, and a head clerk may be likened to a kind 
of first cousin.’ 

“JT meant no offence whatever, Mr. Touchwood Scrogie.” 

“ Scrogie Touchwood, if you please,” said the senior’; ‘‘ the 
scrog branch first, for it must become rotten ere it become 
Touchwood—ha, ha, ha !—you take me.” 

“ A singular old fellow this,” said Mowbray to himself, “ and 
speaks in all the dignity of dollars; but I will be civil to him, 
till I can see what he is driving at.—You are facetious, Mr. 
Touchwood,” he proceeded aloud. ‘I was only going to say, 
that although you set no value upon your connection with my 
family, yet I cannot forget that such a circumstance exists ; 
and therefore I bid you heartily welcome to Shaws Castle.” 

“Thank ye, thank ye, Mr. Mowbray—I knew you wouldsee 
the thing. right... To tell you the truth, I should not have cared 
much to come, a-begging for your acquaintance and cousinship, 
and so forth ; but that I thought you would be more tractable 
in your adversity, than was. your father in his prosperity.” 

“ Did you know my father, sir ? ” said Mowbray. 

“ Ay, ay—I came once down. here, and was introduced. to 
him—saw your sister and you when. you were children—had 
thoughts of making my will then, and should have clapped you 
both in before I set out to double Cape Horn! But, gad, J 
wish my poor father had seen the. reception I got! I did not 
let the old gentleman, Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s that was 
then, smoke my money-bags—that might have made him, more 
tractable—not but that we went on indifferent well for a day 
or two, till I got a hint that my.room was wanted, for that the 
Duke of Devil-knows-what was expected, and my bed was to 
serve his, valet-de-chambre.—‘ Oh, damn all gentle cousins !’ 
said I, and off I set on the pad, round the world again, and 
thought no more of the Mowbrays tiJl a year or so ago.’ 

‘ PAnd pray, what recalled us to your recollection ?.” 

“Why,” said Touchwood, “I was settled for some time at 
Smyrna (for. I turn the penny go. where I will—I have done a 
little business even since, I came here) ; but being at Smyrna, 
as I said, I became acquainted with Francis Tyrrel.” 

“ The natural brother of Lord, Etherington,” said Mowbray. 

“ Ay, so called,” answered Touchwood ; “but by and by he 
is more likely to prove the Earl of Etherington himself, and 
other fine fellow the bastard,” 

“The devil he is !—You surprise me, Mr. Touchwood.” 

» “I thought. I should—I, thought I should—Faith, I am 


364. ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


sometimes surprised myself at the turn things takes in this 
world. But the thing is not the less certain—the proofs are 
lying in the strong chest of our house at London, deposited 
there by the old Earl, who repented of his roguery to Miss 
Martigny long before he died, but had not courage enough to 
do his legitimate son justice till the sexton had housed him.” 

‘““Good Heaven, sir !”’ said Mowbray; ‘and did you know 
all this while, that I was about to bestow the only sister of my 
house upon an impostor ? ” 

‘ What was my business with that, Mr. Mowbray?” replied 
Touchwood; ‘‘ you would have been very angry had any one 
suspected you of not being sharp enough to look out for your- 
self and your sister both. Besides, Lord Etherington, bad 
enough as he may be in other respects, was, till very lately, no 
impostor, or an innocent one, for he only occupied the situation 
in which his father had placed him. And, indeed, when I 
understood, upon coming to England, that he was gone down 
here, and, as I conjectured, to pay his addresses to your sister, 
to say truth, I did not see he could do better. Here was a 
poor fellow that was about to cease to be a lord and a wealthy 
man ; was it not very reasonable that he should make the most 
of dignity while he had it? and if, by marrying a pretty girl 
while in possession of his title, he could get possession of the 
good estate of Nettlewood, why, I could see nothing in it but a 
very pretty way of breaking his fall.” 

“Very pretty for him, indeed, and very convenient too,” said 
Mowbray ; ‘but pray, sir, what was to become of the honor of 
my family ? ” 

‘Why, what was the honor of your family to me?” said 
Touchwood ; “unless it was to recommend your family to my 
care that I was disinherited on account of it. And if this 
Etherington, or Bulmer, had been a good fellow, I would have 
seen all the Mowbrays that ever wore broad cloth, at Jericho, 
before I had interfered.” 

“TI am really much indebted to your kindness,” said Mow- 
bray, angrily. 

“More than you are aware of,” answered Touchwood ; “for 
though I thought this Bulmer, even when declared illegitimate, 
might be a reasonable good match for your sister, considering, 
the estate which was to accompany the union of their hands ; 
yet, now IJ have discovered him to be a scoundrel—every way a 
scoundrel—I would not wish any decent girl to marry him, 
were they to get all Yorkshire, instead of Nettlewood. SoTI 
have come to put you right.” 

The strangeness of the news which Touchwood so bluntly 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 365 


communicated, made Mowbray’s head turn round like that ofa 
man who grows dizzy at finding himself on the verge of a preci- 
pice. ‘Touchwood observed his consternation, which he will- 
ingly construed into an acknowledgment of his own brilliant 
enius. 

“Take a glass of wine Mr. Mowbray,” he said, complacently ; 
“take a glass of old sherry—nothing like it for clearing the 
ideas—and do not be afraid of me, though I come thus sud- 
denly upon you, with such surprising tidings—you will find me 
a plain, simple, ordinary man, that have my faults and my 
blunders, like other people. JI acknowledge that much travel 
and experience have made me sometimes play the busybody, 
because I find I can do things better than other people, and I 
love to see folk stare—it’s a way I have got. But, after all, I 
am wz bon diable, as the Frenchman says; and here I have 
come four or five hundred miles to lie quiet among you all, and 
put all your little matters to rights, just when you think they are 
most desperate.” 

“Y thank you for your kind intentions,” said Mowbray ; 
“but I must needs say that they would have been more effectual 
had you been less cunning in my behalf, and frankly told me 
what you knew of Lord Etherington ; as it is, the matter has 
gone fearfully far. I have promised him my sister—I have 
laid myself under personal obligations to him—and there are 
other reasons why I fear I must keep my word to this man, 
earl or no earl.” 

“What!” exclaimed Touchwood, “ would you give up your 
sister to a worthless rascal, who is capable of robbing the post- 
office, and of murdering his brother, because you have lost a 
trifle of money to him? Are you to let him go off trium- 
phantly because he is a gamester as well as a cheat ?—You are a 
pretty fellow, Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s—you are one of the 
happy sheep that go out for wool, and come home shorn. Egad, 
you think yourself a millstone, and turn out a sack of grain— 
You flew abroad a hawk, and have come home a pigeon—You 
snarled at the Philistines, and they have drawn your eye-teeth 
with a vengeance ! ”’ 

“This is all very witty, Mr. Touchwood,” replied Mowbray ; 
“but wit will not pay this man Etherington, or whatever he is, 
so many hundreds as I have lost to him.” 

“Why, then, wealth must do what wit cannot,” said old 
Touchwood; ‘‘I must advance for you, that is all. Look ye, 
sir, 1 do not go afoot for nothing—if I have labored, I have 
reaped—and, like the fellow in the old play, ‘I have enough, 
and can maintain my humor ’—it is not a few hundreds or thou- 


366 ST: RONAN’S WELL, 


sands either can stand betwixt old P. S. Touchwood and his 
purpose ; and my present purpose is to make you, Mr. Mowbray 
of St. Ronan’s, a free man of the forest.. You still look grave 
on it, young man ?—Why, I trust you are not such an ass as 
to think your dignity offended, because the plebeian Scrogie 
comes to the assistance of the terribly great and old house of 
Mowbray ? ” 

‘“‘T am indeed not such a fool,” answered Mowbray, with his 
eyes still bent on the ground, “ to reject assistance that comes 
to me like a rope to a drowning man—but there is a circum- 
stance’———he stopped short and drank a glass of wine—“ a 
circumstance to which it is most painful to me to allude—but you 
seem my friend—and I cannot intimate to you more strongly 
my belief in your professions of regard that by saying, that the 
language held by Lady Penelope Penfeather on my sister’s ac- 
count, renders it highly proper that she were settled in life ; and I 
cannot but fear, that the breaking off the affair with this man 
might be of great prejudice to her at this moment. They will 
have Nettlewood, and they may live separate—he has offered 
to make settlements to that effect, even on the very day of mar- 
riage. Her condition as a married woman will put her above 
scandal, and above necessity, from which, I am sorry to say, I 
cannot hope long to preserve her.” 

** For shame !—for shame !—for shame !” said Touchwood, 
accumulating his words thicker than usual on each other ; 
“would you sell your own flesh and blood to a man like this 
Bulmer, whose character is now laid before you, merely because 
a disappointed old maid speaks scandal of her? A fine ven- 
eration you pay to the honored name of Mowbray! If my poor, 
old, simple father had known what the owners of these two 
grand syllables could have stooped to do for merely ensuring 
subsistence, he would have thought as little of the noble Mow- 
brays as of the humble Scrogies.. And, I dare say, the young 
lady is just such another—eager to get married—no matter to 
whom.” 

‘“‘ Excuse me, Mr.Touchwood,” answered Mowbray ; “ my 
sister entertains sentiments so very different from what you 
ascribe to her, that she and I parted on the most unpleasant 
terms, in consequence of my pressing this man’s suit upon her. 
God knows, that I only did so, because I saw no other outlet 
from this most unpleasant dilemma, But, since you are willing 
to interfere, sir, and aid me to disentangle these complicated 
matters, which have, I own, been made worse by my own rash- 
ness, I am ready to throw the matter completely into your 
hands, just as if you were my father arisen from the dead. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 367 


Nevertheless, I must needs express my surprise at the extent of 
your intelligence in these affairs.” 

*¢ You speak very sensibly, young man,” said the traveler ; 
“ and as for my intelligence, I have for some time known the 
finesses of this Master Bulmer as perfectly as if J had been at 
his elbow when he was playing all his dog’s tricks with this 
family. You would hardly suspect now,” he continued, in a 
confidential tone, “‘ that what you were so desirous a while ago 
should take place, has in some sense actually happened, and 
that the marriage ceremony has really passed betwixt your 
sister and this pretended Lord Etherington ? ” 

“ Have a care, sir!’ said Mowbray fiercely ; ‘do not abuse 
my candor—this is no place, time, or subject for impertinent 
jesting.”” 

“‘ As I live by bread, I am serious,” said Touchwood ; “ Mr. 
Cargill performed the ceremony; and there are two living 
witnesses who heard them say the words, ‘I, Clara, take you, 
Francis,’ or whatever the Scottish church puts in place of that 
mystical formula.”’ 

** It is impossible,” said Mowbray ; “‘ Cargill dared not have 
done such a thing—a clandestine proceeding, such as you speak 
of, would have cost him his living. I'll bet my soul against a 
horse-shoe, it is all an imposition ; and you come to disturb me, 


sir, amid my family distress, with legends that have no more 


truth in them than the Alkoran.” 

“There are some true things in the Alkoran (or rather the 
Koran, for the Al is merely the article prefixed), but let that 
pass—I will raise your wonder higher before Iam done. It is 
very true, that your sister was indeed joined in marriage with 
this same Bulmer, that calls himself by the title of Etherington ; 
but it is just as true, that the marriage is not worth a maravedi, 
for she believed him at the time to be another person—to be, 
in a word, Francis Tyrrel who is actually what the other 
pretends to be, a nobleman of fortune.” 

“ T cannot understand one word of all this,’”’ said Mowbray. 
“‘T must to my sister instantly, and demand of her if there be 
any real foundation for these wonderful averments.”’ 

“Do not go,” said Touchwood, detaining him, “ you snall 
have a full explanation from me; and to comfort you under 
your perplexity, I can assure you that Cargill’s consent to 
celebrate the nuptials was only obtained by an aspersion thrown 
on your sister’s character, which induced him to believe that 
speedy marriage would be the sole means of saving her repu- 
tation ; and I am convinced in my own mind it is only the 


368 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


revival of this report which has furnished the foundation of 
Lady Penelope’s chattering.” 

“ Tf I could think so,”—said Mowbray, “ if I could but 
think this is truth-—and it seems to explain in some degree, 
my sister’s mysterious conduct—if I could but think it true, I 
should fall down and worship you as an angel from heaven ! ” 

“* A proper sort of angel,”’ said Touchwood, looking modestly 
down on his short, sturdy supporters—“‘ Did you ever hear of 
an angel in boot-hose ? Or, do you suppose angels are sent to 
wait on broken-down horse-jockeys ? ” 

“ Call me what you will, Mr. Touchwood,” said the young 
man; ‘only make out your story true, and my sister inno- 
cent!” 

*¢ Very well spoken, sir,” answered the senior, “ very well 
spoken ! But 'then I understand you are to be guided by my 
prudence and experience ? None of your G— damme doings, 
sir—your duels or your drubbings. Let me manage the affair 
for you, and I will bring you through with a flowing sail.” 

“‘ Sir, I must feel as a gentleman,” said Mowbray. 

“ Feel as a fool,” said Touchwood, “for that is the true case. 
Nothing would pleases this Bulmer better than to fight through 
his rogueries—he knows very well, that he who can slit a pistol- 
ball on the edge of a penknife will always preserve some sort 
of reputation amidst his scoundrelism—but I shall take care to 
stop that hole. Sit down—be a man of sense, and listen to the 
whole of this strange story.” 

Mowbray sat down accordingly ; and ‘Touchwood, in his own 
way, and with many characteristic interjectional remarks, gave 
him an account of the early loves of Clara and Tyrrel—of the 
reasons which induced Bulmer at first to encourage their cor- 
respondence, in hopes that his brother would, by a clandestine 
marriage, altogether ruin himself with his father—of the change 
which took place in his views when he perceived the importance 
annexed by the old Earl to the union of Miss Mowbray with 
his apparent heir—of the desperate stratagem which he endeav- 
ored to play off, by substituting himself in the room of his 
brother—and all the consequences, which it is unnecessary to 
resume here, as they are detailed at length by the perpetrator 
himself, in his correspondence with Captain Jekyl. 

When the whole communication was ended, Mowbray, almost 
stupefied by the wonders he had heard, remained for some time 
ina sort of reverie, from which he only started to ask what 
evidence could be produced of a story so strange. 

“The evidence,” answered Touchwood, ‘of one who was a 
deep agent in all these matters, from first to last—as complete 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 369 


a rogue, I believe, as the devil himself, with this difference 
that our mortal fiend does not, I believe, do evil for the sake 
of evil, but for the sake of the profit which attends it. How 
far this plea will avail him in a court of conscience, I cannot 
tell; but his disposition was so far akin to humanity, that 
I have always found my old acquaintance as ready to do 
good as harm, providing he had the same agzo upon the trans- 
action.” 

“On my soul,” said Mowbray, “you must mean Solmes ! 
whom I have long suspected to be a deep villain—and now he 
proves traitor to boot. How the devil could you get into his 
intimacy, Mr. Touchwood ?” 

“The case was particular,” said Touchwood. ‘ Mr. Solmes, 
too active a member of the community to be satisfied with 
managing the affairs which his master entrusted to him, . 
adventured in a little business on his own account; and think- 
ing, I suppose, that the late Earl of Etherington had forgotten 
fully to acknowledge his services, as valet to his son, he supplied 
that defect by a small check on our house for #100, in name, 
and bearing the apparent signature, of the deceased. This 
small mistake being detected, Mr. Solmes, porfenr of the little 
billet, would have been consigned to the custody of a Bow Street 
officer, but that I found means to relieve him, on condition of 
his making known to me the points of private history which I 
have just been communicating to you. What I had known of 
Tyrrel at Smyrna had given me much interest in him, and you 
may guess it was not lessened by the distresses which he had 
sustained through his brother’s treachery. By this fellow’s 
means, I have counterplotted all his master’s fine schemes. 
For example, as soon as I learned Bulmer was coming down 
here, I contrived to give Tyrrel an anonymous hint, well 
knowing he would set off like the devil to thwart him, and so 
I should have the whole dramatis persone together, and play 
them all off against each other, after my own pleasure.” 

“In that case,” said Mr. Mowbray, “‘ your expedient brought 
about the rencontre between the two brothers, when both 
might have fallen.” | 

“Can’t deny it—can’t deny it,’”’ answered Scrogie, a little 
discountenanced—‘“‘ a mere accident—no one can guard every 
point.—Egad, but I had like to have been baffled again, for 
Bulmer sent the lad Jekyl, who is not such a black sheep 
neither but what there are some white hairs about him, upon a 
treaty with Tyrrel, that my secret agent was not admitted to. 
Gad, but I discovered the whole—you will scarce guess how.” 

“Probably not easily, indeed, sir,” answered Mowbray ; “for 


370 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


your sources of intelligence are not the most.obyious, any more 
than your mode of acting the most simple or most com- 
prehensible.” 

“‘T would not. have it so,” said Touchwood;, “ simpler men 
perish in their simplicity—I carry my eye-teeth about me.— 
And for my source of information—why, I played the eaves- 
dropper, sir—listened—knew my landlady’s cupboard with the 
double door—got into it as she has done many a time.—Such 
a fine gentleman as you would rather cut'a man’s throat, I 
suppose, than listen at aicupboard spat, though the abject were 
to prevent murder.” 

phd: cannot say I should have tianens of the expedient, 
certainly, sir,” said Mowbray. 

“T did though,” said Scrogie, ‘and learned enough of what 
was going on, to give Jekyl a hint that sickened him of his 
commission, I believe—so the game is all in my own hands 
Bulmer has no one to trust to but Solmes, and Solmes tells me, 
everything.”’ 

Here Mowbray could not suppress a movement of impa- 
tienc 

‘‘T wish to God, sir, that since you were ‘so ena as to in- 
terest yourself in affairs so intimately concerning |my family, 
you had been pleased to act with a little more openness tow- 
ard me. Here have I been for weeks the intimate of.a damned 
scoundrel, whose throat I ought to have cut for his scandalous 
conduct to my sister. Here have I been rendering her and 
myself miserable, and getting myself cheated every night by a 
swindler, whom you, if it had been your pleasure, could have un- 
masked by asingle word. I do all justice to your intentions, 
sir; but, upon my soul, I cannot help wishing you had, conduct- 
ed yourself with more frankness and less mystery; and I am 
truly afraid your love of dexterity has been too much for ‘your 
ingenuity, and that you have suffered matters to run into such’ 
a skein of confusion, as you yourself will find. difficulty in, un- 


raveling.”’ 
Touchwood smiled, and shook his head in all the conscious 
pride of superior understanding. ‘“‘ Young man,” he’ said, 


“when you have seen.a little of the world, “and especially be- 
yond the bounds of this narrow island, you will find much 
more art and: dexterity mecessary in conducting these busi- 
nesses to an issue, than occurs to a blind John Bull, or a raw. 
Scottishman. You will be then no stranger to. the ‘policy of. 
life, which deals in mining and countermining,—now in making ) 
feints, now in thrusting with forthright passes. I looked upon 
you, Mr. Mowbray, as a young man spoiled by staying at home, 


ST. RONAN?S WELL. 371 


‘and keeping bad company; and will make it my business, if 


you submit yourself to my suidance, to inform your understand: 


“ing, so as to retrieve your estate.—Don’t—don’t answer me, 
‘sir! because I know too well, by experience, how young men 
answer on these subjects—they are conceited, sir, as conceited 


as if they had been in all the four quarters of the world. I hate 
to be answered, sir, I hate it. And, to tell you the truth, it is 


‘because Tyrrel has a fancy of answering me, that I rather 
‘make you my confidant on this occasion, than him. J would 
thave had him throw himself into my arms, and under my 
directions ; but he hesitated—he hesitated, Mr. Mowbray—and 


I despise hesitation. If he thinks he has wit enough to manage 
his own matters, let him try it—let him try it. Not but I will 
do all that I can for him in fitting time and place; but I will 
let him dwell in his perplexities and uncertainties for a little 
while longer. And so, Mr. Mowbray, you see what sort of an 
odd fellow I am, and you can satisfy me at once whether you 
mean to come into my measures—only speak out at once, sir, 
for I abhor hesitation.” 

While Touchwood thus spoke, Mowbray was forming his 
resolution internally. He was not’ so inexperienced as the 
senior supposed ; at least, he could plainly see that he had to 
do with an obstinate, capricious old man, who, with the best 
intentions in the world, chose to have everything in his own 
way ; and, like most petty politicians, was disposed to throw 


Intrigue and mystery over matters which had much better be 


prosecuted boldly and openly. But he perceived, at the same 
time, that Touchwood, as a sort of relation, wealthy, childless, 


‘and disposed to become his friend, was a person to be con- 


ciliated, the rather that the traveler himself had frankly owned 
that it was Francis Tyrrel’s want of deference toward him, 
which had forfeited, or at least abated, his favor. Mowbray 
recollected, also, that the circumstances under which he him: 
self stood did not permit him to trifle with returning gleams of 
good fortune. Subduing, therefore, the haughtiness of temper 
proper to him as an only son and heir, he ‘answered respect- 


‘fully, that, in his condition, the advice and assistance of Mr. 


Scrogie Touchwood were too important, not to be purchased at 
the price of submitting his own judgment to that of an experi- 
enced and sagacious friend.” 

“ Well said, Mr. Mowbray,” replied the senior, ‘ well said. 
Let me once have the management of your affairs, and we will 
brush them up for you without loss of time.—I must be obliged 


‘to you for a bed for the night, however—it is as dark as a 
‘wolf’s mouth ; and if you will give orders to keep the poor devil 


372 : ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


of a postilion, and his horses too, why I will be the more 
obliged to you.” : 

Mowbray applied himself to the bell. Patrick answered the 
call, and was much surprised, when the old gentleman, taking 
the word out of his entertainer’s mouth, desired a bed to be got 
ready, with a little fire in the grate ; “ for I take it, friend,” 
he went on, “‘ you have not guests here very often.—And see 
that my sheets be not damp, and bid the housemaid take care 
not to make the bed upon an exact level, but let it slope from the 
pillow to the footposts, at a declivity of about eighteen inches. 
——And hark ye—get me a jug of barley-water, to place by my 
bedside, with the squeeze of a lemon—or stay, you will make it 
as sour as Beelzebub—bring the lemon on a saucer, and I will 
mix it myself.” 

Patrick listened like one of sense forlorn, his head turning 
like a mandarin, alternately from the speaker to his master, as 
if to ask the latter whether this was all reality. The instant 
that Touchwood stopped, Mowbray added his fiat. 

“Let everything be done to make Mr. Touchwood comfort- 
able, in the way he wishes.” 

“‘ Aweel, sir,” said Patrick, “I shall tell Mally, to be sure, 
and we maun do our best, and—but it’s unco late ”’ 

“And therefore,” said Touchwood, ‘‘ the sooner we get to 
bed the better, my old friend. I, for one, must be stirring 
early—I have business of life and death—It concerns you too, 
Mr. Mowbray—but no more of that till to-morrow.—And let 
the lad put up his horses, and get him a bed somewhere.” 

Patrick here thought he had gotten upon firm ground for 
resistance, for which, displeased with the dictatorial manner of 
the stranger, he felt considerably inclined. 

‘““Ye may catch us at that, if ye can,” said Patrick; “there’s 
nae post-cattle come into our stables—What do we ken, but 
that they may be glandered as the groom says?” 

‘“‘We must take the risk to-night, Patrick,” said Mowbray, 
reluctantly enough—“ unless Mr. Touchwood will permit the 
horses to come back early next morning?” 

“Not I, indeed,” said Touchwood; ‘‘ safe bind safe find— 
it may be once away and aye away, and we shall have enough 
to do to-morrow morning. Moreover, the poor carrion are 
tired, and the merciful man is merciful to his beast—and, in a 
word, if the horses go back to St. Ronan’s Well to-night, I go 
there for company.” 

It often happens, owing, I suppose, to the perversity of 
human nature, that subserviency in trifles is more difficult to a 
proud mind, than compliance in matters of more importance, 


STs RONAN’S WELL. 373 


Mowbray, like other young gentlemen of his class, was finically 
rigid in his stable discipline, and even Lord Etherington’s 
horses had not been admitted into that sanctum sanctorum, into 
which he now saw himself obliged to induct two wretched post- 
hacks. But he submitted with the best grace he could; and 
Patrick, while he left their presence with lifted-up hands and 
eyes, to execute the orders he had received, could scarcely help 
thinking that the old man must be the devil in disguise, since 
he could thus suddenly control his fiery master, even in the 
points which he had hitherto seemed to consider as of most 
vital importance. 

“The Lord in his mercy haud.a grip of this puir family! 
for I, that was born in it, am like to see the end of it.” 
Thus ejaculated Patrick. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENTH. 
THE hea tovinaecse 


*Tis a naughty night to swim in. 
KING LEAR, 


THERE was a wild uncertainty about Mowbray’s ideas, after 
he started from a feverish sleep on the morning succeeding this 
memorable interview, that his sister, whom he really loved as 
much as he was capable of loving anything, had dishonored 
him and her name; and the horrid recollection of their last 
interview was the first idea which his waking imagination was 
thrilled with. Then came Touchwood’s tale of exculpation— 
and he persuaded _ himself, or strove to do so, that Clara must 
have understood the charge he had brought against her as 
referring to her attachment to Tyrrel, and its fatal conse- 
quences. Again, still he doubted how that could be—still feared 
that there must be more behind than her reluctance to confess 
the fraud which had been practiced on her by Bulmer; and 
then, again, he strengthened himself in the first and more 
pleasing opinion by recollecting that, averse as she was to 
espouse the person he proposed. to her, it must have appeared 
to her the completion of ruin, if he, Mowbray, should obtain 
knowledge of the clandestine marriage. 

“Ves—O yes,” he said to himself, “she would think that 
this story would render me more eager in the rascal’s interest, 


374 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


as the best way of hushing up such a discreditable affair— 
faith, and she would have judged right too; for, had he actually 
been Lord Etherington, I do not see what else she could have 
done. But, not being Lord Etkerington, and an anointed 
scoundrel into the bargain, I will content myself with cudgel- 
ling him to death so soon as I can get out of the guardianship 
of this old, meddling, obstinate, self-willed busy-body.—Then, 
what is to be done for Clara?—This mock marriage was a 
mere bubble, and both parties must draw stakes. She likes 
this grave Don, who proves to be thé stick of the right tree, 
- after all—so do not I, though there be something lord-like 
about him. I was sure a strolling painter could not have car- 
ried it off so. She may marry him, I suppose, if the law is not 
against it—then she has the earldom, and the Oaklands, and 
Nettlewood, all at once.—Gad, we should come in winners, 
after all—and, I dare say, this old boy Touchwood is as rich as 
a Jew—worth a hundred thousand at least—He is too peremp- 
tory to be cut up for sixpence under a hundred thousand.— 
And he talks of putting me to rights—I must not wince—must 
stand still to be curried a little—Only, I wish the law may per- 
mit Clara’s being married to this other earl—A woman cannot 
marry two brothers, that is certain; but, then, if she is not 
married to the one of them in good and lawful form, there can 
be no bar to her marrying the other, I should think—I hope 
the lawyers will talk no nonsense about it—I hope Clara will 
have no foolish scruples.—But, by my word, the first thing I 
have to hope is, that the thing is true, for it comes through but 
a suspicious channel. J’ll away to Clara instantly—get the 
truth out of her—and consider what is to be done.” 

Thus partly thought and partly spoke the young Laird of 
St. Ronan’s, hastily dressing himself, in order to inquire into 
the strange chaos of events which perplexed his imagination. 

When he came down to the parlor where they had supped 
last night, and where breakfast was prepared this morning, he 
sent for a girl who acted as his sister’s immediate attendant, 
and asked “if Miss Mowbray was yet stirring?” 

The girl answered, “she had not rung her bell.” 

“Tt is past her usual hour,” said Mowbray, ‘‘ but she was 
disturbed last night. Go, Martha, tell her to get up instantly 
—say I have excellent good news for her—or, if her head 
aches, I will come and tell them to her before she rises—go 
like lightning.” 

Martha went, and returned in a minute or two. “I cannot 
make my mistress hear, sir, knock as loud as I will. I wish,” 
she added, with that love of evil presage which is common in 


? 
ST. RONAN’S WELL. 378 


the lower ranks, “that Miss Clara may be well, for I never 
knew her sleep so sound.” 

Mowbray jumped from the chair into which he had thrown 
himself, ran through the gallery, and knocked smartly at his 
sister’s door; there was no answer. ‘Clara, dear Clara !— 
Answer me but one word—say but you are well. I frightened 
you last night—I had been drinking wine—I was violent—for- 
give me !—Come, do not be sulky—speak but a single word— 
say but you are well.” 

He made the pauses longer betwixt every branch of his 
address, knocked sharper and louder, listened more anxiously © 
for an answer; at length he attempted to open the door, but 
found it locked, or otherwise secured. ‘‘ Does Miss Mowbray 
always lock her door ?”’ he asked the girl. 

“ Never knew her do it before, sir; she leaves it open that 
I may call her, and open the window shutters.” 

She had too good reason for precaution last night, thought 
her brother, and then remembered having heard her bar the 
door. 

“Come, Clara,” he continued, greatly agitated, ‘‘do not be 
silly; if you will not open the door, I must force it, that’s all; 
far how can I tell but that you are sick, and unable to answer ? 
—~if you are only sullen, say so.—She returns no answer,” he 
said, turning to the domestic, who was now joined by Touch- 
wood. 

Mowbray’s anxiety was so great, that it prevented his 
taking any notice of his guest, and he proceeded to say, with- 
out regarding his presence, ‘‘ What is to be done ?—she may be 
sick—she may be asleep—she may have swooned; if I force 
the door, it may terrify her to death in the present weak state 
of her nerves.—Clara, dear Clara! do but speak a single word, 
and you shall remain in your own room as long as you please.” 

There was no answer. Miss Mowbray’s maid, hitherto too 
much fluttered and alarmed to have much presence of mind, 
now recollected a back-stair which communicated with her 
mistress’s room from the garden, and suggested she might 
have gone out that way. 

“Gone out,” said Mowbray, in great anxiety, and looking 
at the heavy fog, or rather small rain, which blotted the No- 
vember morning,—“ Gone out, and in weather like this !—But 


we may get into her room from the back-stair.” 


So saying, and leaving his guest to follow or remain as he 
thought proper, he flew rather than walked to the garden, and 
found the private door which led into it from the bottom of the 
back-stair above mentioned was wide open. Full of vague but 


376 ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


- fearful apprehensions, he rushed up to the door of his sister’s 
apartment, which opened from her dressing-room to the landing- 
place of the stair ; it was ajar, and that which communicated 
betwixt the bed-room and dressing-room was half open. “Clara, 
Clara!” exclaimed Mowbray, invoking her name rather in an 
agony of apprehension, than as any longer hoping for a reply. 
And his apprehension was but too prophetic. 

Miss Mowbray was not in that apartment; and from the order 
in which it was found, it was plain she had neither undressed on 
the preceding night, nor occupied the bed. Mowbray struck his 
forehead in an agony of remorse and fear. “I have terrified her to 
death,” he said ; ‘‘ she has fled in to the woods and perished there!” 

Under the influence of this apprehension, Mowbray, after 
another hasty glance around the apartment, as if to assure him 
self that Clara was not there, rushed again into the dressing 
room, almost overturning the traveler, who, in civility, had no 
ventured to enter the inner apartment. ‘You are as madas a 
Hamako,” * said the traveler ; “let us consult together, and I 
am sure I can contrive” 

“‘ Oh, d—n your contrivance ! ” said Mowbray, forgetting all 
proposed respect in his natural impatience, aggravated by his 
alarm ; “if you had behaved straightforward, and like a man of 
common sense, this would not have happened !” 

‘“‘ God forgive you, young man, if your reflections are unjust,”’ 
said the traveler, quitting the hold he had laid upon Mowbray’s 
coat ; ‘‘ and God forgive me too, if I have done wrong while 
endeavoring to do for the best !—But may not Miss Mowbray 
have gone down to the Well? I will order my horses, and set 
off instantly.” 

‘Do, do,” said Mowbray recklessly ; “ I thank you;” and 
hastily traversing the garden, as if desirous to get rid at once of 
his visitor and his own thoughts, he took the shortest road to 
a little postern-gate, which led into the extensive copsewood, 
through some part of which Clara had caused a walk to be cut 
to a little summer-house built of rough shingles, covered with 
creeping shrubs. 

As Mowbray hastened through the garden he met the old 
man by whom it was kept, a native of the south country, and 
an old dependant on the family.‘ Have you seen my sister?” 
said Mowbray, hurrying his words on each other with the eager- 
ness of terror. 

“¢ What’s your wull, St. Ronan’s ?” answered the old mau, at 
once dull of hearing and slow of apprehension. 

‘“‘ Have you seen Miss Clara ?” shouted Mowbray, and mut- 
tered an oath or two at the gardener’s stupidity. 

* A fool is so termed in Turkey. 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 377 


“In troth have I,” replied the gardener deliberately ; “* what 
suld ail me to see Miss Clara, St. Ronan’s ? ” 

** When, and where ? ” eagerly demanded the querist. 

“Ou, just yestreen, after tey-time—afore ye cam hame your: 
sell galloping sae fast,” said Joseph. 

“T am as stupid as he, to put off my time in speaking to 
such an old cabbage-stock,” said Mowbray, and hastened on to 
the postern-gate already mentioned, leading from the garden 
to what was usually called Miss Clara’s walk. ‘Two or three 
domestics, whispering to each other, and with countenances that 
showed grief, fear, and suspicion, followed their master, desirous 
to be employed, yet afraid to force their services on the fiery 
young man. 

At the little postern he found some traces of her he sought. 
The pass-key of Clara was left in the lock. It was then plain 
that she must have passed that way; but at what hour, or for 
what purpose, Mowbray dared not conjecture. ‘The path, after 
-tunning a quarter of a mile or more through an open grove of 
oaks and sycamores, attained the verge of “the large brook, and 
became there steep and rocky, difficult to the infirm, and staves 
ing to the nervous; often approaching the brink of a precipitous 
ledge of rock, which in this place overhung the stream, in some 
places brawling and foaming in hasty current, and in others 
seeming to slumber in deep and circular eddies. ‘The tempta- 
tions which this dangerous scene must have offered an excited 
and desperate spirit, came on Mowbray like the blight of the 
Simoom, and he stood a moment to gather breath and overcome 
these horrible anticipations, ere he was able to proceed. His 
attendants felt the same apprehension. “ Puir thing—puir 
thing !—Oh, God send she may not have been left to hersell !— 
God send she may have been upholden ! ” were whispered by 
Patrick to the maidens, and by them to each other. 

At this moment the old gardener was heard behind them, 
shouting, “ Master—St. Ronan’s—Master—I have fund—lI 
have fund ” 

“Have you found my sister ?” exclaimed the brother, with 
breathless anxiety. 

The old man did not answer till he came up, and then, with 
his usual slowness of delivery, he replied to his master’s repeated 
inquiries, ‘“‘ Na, I haena fund Miss Clara, but I hae fund some- 
thing ye wad be wae to lose—your braw hunting-knife.”’ 

He put the implement into the hand of its owner, who, rec 
ollecting the circumstances under which he had flung it from 
him last night, and the now too probable consequences of that 
interview, bestowed on it a deep imprecation, and again hurled 


378 | ST: RONAN’S WELL. 


it from him into the brook. The domestics looked at each 
other, and recollecting each at the same time that the knife 
was a favorite tool of their master, who was rather curious in 
such articles, had little doubt that his mind was affected, in a 
temporary way at least, by his anxiety on his sister’s account. 

He saw their confused and inquisitive looks and assuming as 
much composure and presence of mind as he could command, 
directed Martha and her female companions to return and 
search the walks on the other side of Shaws Castle ; and finally 
ordered Patrick back to ring the bell, “ which,” he said, assum- 
ing a confidence that he was far from entertaining, “might call 
Miss Mowbray home from some of her long walks.” He further 
desired his groom and horses might meet him at the Clattering 
Brig, so called from a noisy cascade which was formed by the 
brook, above which was stretched a small foot-bridge of planks. 

Having thus shaken off his attendants, he proceeded himself, 
with all the speed he was capable of exerting, to follow out 
the path in which he was at present engaged, which being a 
favorite walk with his sister, she might perhaps have adopted 
from mere habit, when in a state of mind, which, he had too 
much reason to fear, must have put choice out of the question. 

He soon reached the summer-house, which was merely a seat 
covered overhead and on the sides, open in front, and neatly 
paved with pebbles. ‘This little bower was perched, like a 
hawk’s nest, almost upon the edge of a projecting crag, the 
highest point of the line of rock which we have noticed; and 
had been selected by poor Clara on account of the prospect 
which it commanded down the valley. One of her gloves lay 
on the small rustic table in the summer-house. Mowbray 
caught it eagerly up. It was drenched with wet—the preced- 
ing day had been dry; so that had she forgot it there in the 
morning, or in the course of the day, it could not have been in 
that state. She had certainly been there during the night, when 
it rained heavily. 

Mowbray, thus assured that Clara had been in this place 
while her passions and fears were so much afloat as they must 
have been at her flight from her father’s house, cast a hurried 
and terrified glance from the brow of the precipice into the deep 
stream that eddied below... It seemed to him that, in the sullen 
roar of the water, he heard the last groans of his sister—the foam- 
flakes caught his eye, as if they were a part of her garments. 
But a closer examination showed that there was no appearance 
of such a catastrophe. . Descending the path on. the other side 
of the bower, he observed a footprint in a place where the clay 
was moist and tenacious, which, from the small size and the 


ST, RONAN’S WELL. 379 


shape of the shoe, it appeared to him must be a trace of her 
whom he sought. He hurried forward, therefore, with as much 
speed as yet permitted him to look out keenly for similar im- 
pressions, of which it seemed to him he remarked several, 
although less perfect than the former, being much obliterated 
by the quantity of rain that had since fallen—a circumstance 
seeming to prove that several hours had elapsed since the person 
had passed. 

At length, through the various turnings and windings of a long 
and romantic path, Mowbray found himself, without having re- 
ceived any satisfactory intelligence, by the side of the brook, 
called St. Ronan’s Burn, at the place where it was crossed 
by foot-passengers, by the Clattering Brig, and by horsemen 
through a ford a little lower. At this point the fugitive might 
have either continued her wanderings through her paternal 
woods, by a path which, after winding about a mile, returned to 
Shaws Castle, or she might have crossed the bridge, and en- 
tered a broken horseway, common to the public, leading to the 
Aultoun of St. Ronan’s. 

Mowbray, after a moment’s consideration, concluded that the 
last was her most probable option. He mounted his horse, 
which the groom had brought down according to order, and com- 
manding the man to return by the footpath, which he himself 
could not examine, he proceeded to ride toward the ford. The 
brook was swollen during the night, and the groom could not 
forbear intimating to his master that there was considerable 
danger in attempting to cross it. But Mowbray’s mind and 
feelings were too high-strung to permit him to listen to cautious 
counsel. He spurred the snorting and reluctant horse into the 
torrent, though the water, rising high on the upper side, broke 
both over the pommel and the croupe of the saddle. It was by 
exertion of great strength and sagacity that the good horse 
kept the ford-way. Had the stream forced him down among 
the rocks, which lie below the crossing-place, the consequence 
must have been fatal. Mowbray, however, reached the opposite 
side in safety, to the joy and admiration of the servant, who 


‘stood staring at him during the adventure. He then rode 
hastily toward the Aultoun, determined, if he could not hear 


tidings of his sister in that village, that he could spread the 
alarm, and institute a general search after her, since her elope- 
ment from Shaws Castle could, in that case, no longer be con- 
cealed. We must leave him, however, in his present state of 
uncertainty, in order to acquaint our readers with the reality of 
those evils, which his foreboding mind and disturbed conscience 
Could only anticipate. 


380 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTH. 


THE CATASTROPHE. 


What sheeted ghost is wandering through the storm? 
For never did a maid of middle earth 
Choose such a time or spot to vent her sorrows. 

OLD Play. 


GriEF, shame, confusion, and terror, had contributed to 
overwhelm the unfortunate Clara Mowbray, at the moment 
when she parted with her brother, after the stormy and danger- 
ous interview which it was our task to record in a former 
chapter. For years, her life, her whole tenor of thought, had 
been haunted by the terrible apprehension of a discovery, and 
now the thing which she feared had come upon her. ‘The 
extreme violence of her brother, which went so far as to 
menace her personal safety, had united with the previous con- 
flict of passions to produce a rupture of fear, which probably 
left her no other free agency, than that which she derived from 
the blind instinct which urges flight, as the readiest resource in 
danger. 

We have no means of exactly tracing the course of this un- 
happy young woman. It is probable she fled from Shaws 
Castle on hearing of the arrival of Mr. ‘Touchwood’s carriage, 
which she might mistake for that of Lord Etherington; and 
thus, while Mowbray was looking forward to the happier pro- 
spects which. the traveler’s narrative seemed to open, his sister 
was contending with rain and darkness, amidst the difficulties 
and dangers of the mountain path which we have described. 
These were so great, that a young woman more delicately 
brought up, must either have lain down exhausted, or have 
been compelled to turn her steps back to the residence she 
had abandoned. But the solitary wanderings of Clara had in- 
ured her to fatigue and to night-walks; and the deeper causes 
of terror which urged her to flight, rendered her insensible to 
the perils of her way. She had passed the bower, as was evi- 
dent from her glove remaining there, and had crossed the foot- 
bridge ; although it was almost wonderful, that, in so dark a 
night, she should have followed with such accuracy.a track, 
where the missing a single turn by a cubit’s length might have 
precipitated her into eternity. | 


ee’ bere” BGP ee 


<= 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 381 


It is probable that Clara’s spirits and strength began in 
some degree to fail her after she had proceeded a little way on 
the road to the Aultoun; for she had stopped at the solitary 
cottage inhabited by the old female pauper, who had been for 
a time the hostess of the penitent and dying Hannah Irwin. 
Here, as the inmate of the cottage acknowledged, she had 
made some knocking, and she owned she had heard her moan 
bitterly, as she entreated for admission. ‘The old hag was one 
of those whose hearts adversity turns to very stone, and obsti- 
nately kept her door shut, impelled more probably by general 
hatred to the human race, than by the superstitious fears which 
seized her; although she perversely argued that she was startled 
at the supernatural melody and sweetness of tone, with which the 
benighted wanderer made her supplication. She admitted, that 
when she heard the poor petitioner turn from the door her heart 
was softened, and she did intend to open with the purpose of 
offering her at least a shelter; but that before she could “hirple 
to the door, and get the bar taken down,” the unfortunate sup- 
plicant was not to be seen; which strengthened the old woman’s 
opinion that the whole was a delusion of Satan. 

It is conjectured that the repulsed wanderer made no other 


attempt to awaken pity or obtain shelter until she came’ to 


Mr. Cargill’s Manse, in the upper room of which a light was 
still burning, owing to a cause which requires some explanation. 

The reader is aware of the reasons which induced Bulmer, 
or the titular Lord Etherington, to withdraw from the country 
the sole witness, as he conceived, who could, or at least who 
might choose, to bear witness to the fraud which he had practiced 
on the unfortunate Clara Mowbray. Of three persons present 
at the marriage, besides the parties, the clergyman was completely 
deceived. Solmes he conceived to be at his own exclusive 
devotion ; and therefore, if by his means this Hannah Irwin could 
be removed from the scene, he argued plausibly, that all evi- 
dence to the treachery which he had practiced would be effectually 
stifled. Hence his agent, Solmes, had received a commission, 
as the reader may remember, to effect her removal without loss 
of time, and had reported to his master that his efforts had been 
effectual. 

But Solmes, since he had fallen under the influence of Touch- 
wood, was constantly employed in counteracting the schemes 
which he seemed most active in forwarding, while the traveler 
enjoyed (to him an exquisite gratification) the amusement of 
countermining as fast as Bulmer could mine, and had in pros- 
pect the pleasing anticipation of blowing up the pioneer with 
his own petard. For this purpose, as soon as Touchwood 


382 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


learned that his house was to be applied to for the original deeds 
left in charge by the deceased Earl of Etherington, he expedited 
a letter, directing that only the copies should be sent, and thus 
rendered nugatory Bulmer’s desperate design of possessing him- 
self of that evidence. For the same reason, when Solmés 
announced to him his master’s anxious wish to have Hannah 
Irwin conveyed out of the cofintry, he appointed him to cause 
the sick woman to be carefully transported to the Manse, where 
Mr. Cargill was easily induced to give her temporary refuge. 
To this good man, who might be termed an Israelite with- 
out guile, the distress of the unhappy woman would have proved 
a sufficient recommendation; nor was he likely to have inquired 
whether her malady might not be infectious, or to have made 
any of those other previous investigations which are sometimes 
clogs upon the bounty or hospitality of more prudent philan- 
thropists. But, to interest him yet further, Mr. Touchwood 
informed him by letter that the patient (not otherwise unknown 
to him) was possessed of certain most material information 
affecting a family of honor and consequence, and that he him- 
self, with Mr. Mowbray of St..Ronan’s in the quality of a 
magistrate, intended to be at the Manse that evening, to take 
her declaration upon this important subject. Such, indeed, was 
the traveler’s purpose, which might have been carried into effect, 
but for his own self-important love of manceuvring on the one 
part, and the fiery impatience of Mowbray on the other, which, 
as the reader knows, sent the one at full gallop to Shaws Castle, 
and obliged the other to follow him post-haste. This necessity 
he intimated to the clergyman by a note, which he despatched 
express as he himself was in the act of stepping into the chaise, 
He requested that the most particular attention should be 
paid to the invalid—promised to be at the Manse with Mr. 
Mowbray early on the morrow—and, with the lingering and 
inveterate self-conceit which always induced him to conduct 
everything with his own hand, directed his friend, Mr. Cargill, 
not to proceed to take the sick woman’s declaration or confession. 
until he arrived, unless in case of extremity. . 
It had been an easy matter for Solmes to transfer the invalid 
from the wretched cottage to the clergyman’s Manse. The 
first appearance of the associate of much of her guilt had indeed 
terrified her; but he scrupled not to assure her, that his 
penitence was equal to her own, and that he was conveying her. 
where their joint deposition would be formally received, in 
order that they might, so far as possible, atone for the evil of 
which they had been jointly guilty. He also promised her 
kind usage for herself, and support for her children; and she 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 383 


willingly accompanied him to the clergyman’s residence, he him- 
self resolving to abide in concealment the issue of the mystery, 
without again facing his master, whose star, as he well discerned, 
was about to shoot speedily from its exalted sphere. 

The clergyman visited the unfortunate patient, as he had 
done frequently during her residence in his vicinity, and desired 
that she might be carefully attended. During the whole day, 
she seemed better ; but, whether the means of supporting her 
exhausted frame had been too liberally administered,or whether 
the thoughts which gnawed her conscience had returned with 
double severity when she was released from the pressure of 
immediate want, it is certain that, about midnight, the fever 
began to gain ground, and the person placed in attendance on 
her came to inform the clergyman, then deeply engaged with 
the siege of Ptolemais, that she doubted if the woman would 
live till morning, and that she had something lay heavy at her 
heart, which she wished, as the emissary expressed it, ‘‘ to make 
a clean breast of” before she died, or lost possession of her 
senses, 

Awakened by such a crisis, Mr. Cargill at once became a 
man of this world, clear in his apprehension, and cool in his 
resolution, as he always was when the path of duty lay before 
him. Comprehending from the various hints of his friend 
_ Touchwood, that the matter was of the last consequence, his 
own humanity, as well as inexperience, dictated his sending for 
skilful assistance. His man-servant was accordingly despatched 
on horseback to the Well for Dr. Quackleben ; while, upon the 
suggestion of one of his maids, ‘that Mrs. Dods was an uncom- 
mon skeely body about a sick-bed,” the wench was dismissed to 
supplicate the assistance of the gudewife of the Cleikum, which 
she was not, indeed, wont to refuse whenever it could be useful. 
The male emissary proved, in Scottish phrase, a “‘ corbie mes- 
senger ;” for either he did not find the doctor, or he found him 
better engaged than to attend the sick-bed of a pauper, at a 
request which promised such slight remuneration as that of a 
parish minister. But the female ambassador was more success- 
ful ; for, though she found our friend Luckie Dods preparing for 
bed at an hour unusually late, in consequence of some anxiety 
on account of Mr. Touchwood’s unexpected absence, the good 
old dame only growled a little about the minister’s fancies in 
taking puir bodies into his own house; and then, instantly 
donning cloak, hood, and pattens, marched down the gate with 
all the speed of the good Samaritan, one maid bearing the lamp 
before her, while the other remained to keep the house, and to 


384 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


attend to the wants of Mr. ‘Tyrrel, who engaged willingly to sit 
up to receive Mr. ‘Touchwood. 

But ere Dame Dods had arrived at the Manse, the patient 
had summoned Mr. Cargill to her presence, and required him to 
write her confession while she had life and breath to make it. 

“For I believe,” she added, raising herself in the bed, and 
rolling her eyes wildly around, “ that, were I to confess my ‘ouilt 
to one of a less sacred character, the Evil Spirit, whose servant 
I have been, would carry away his prey, both body and soul, 
before they had severed from each other, however short the space 
that they must remain in partnership !” 

Mr. Cargill would have spoken some chostly consolation, 
but she answered with pettish impatience, ** Waste not words— 

waste not words !—Let me speak that which I must tell, and 
sign it with my hand: and do you, as the more immediate 
servant of God, and therefore bound to bear witness to the truth, 
take heed that which I tell you, and nothing else. I desired to 
have told this to St. Ronan’s—I have even made some progress 
in telling it to others—but I am glad I broke short off—tfor I 
know you, Josiah Cargill, though you have long forgotten me.’ 
ele ‘may be so,” said Cargill. ‘“T indeed have no recollection 
of you.” 

“You once knew Hanhah: Irwin, though,” said the sick 
woman ; “ who was companion and relation to Miss Clara ~ 
Mowbray, and who was present with her on that sinful night, 
when she was wedded in the kirk of St. Ronan’s.’ 

“Do you mean to say that you are that person?” said Cargill, 
holding the candle so as to throw some light on the face of “the 
sick woman. ‘ I cannot believe it.” 

‘“No ?” replied the penitent ; ‘there is indeed a difference 
between wickedness in the act of carrying through its successful 
machinations, and wickedness surr ounded by all the hopes ofa 
death-bed !” 

“Do not yet despair,” said Cargill. “ Grace i is omnipotent 
—to doubt this is in itself a great crime.’ 

“* Be it so !—I cannot help it—my heart is hardened, Mr, 
Cargill ; and there is something here,” she pressed her. bosom, 
« which tells me, that, with prolonged life and renewed health, 
even my present agonies would be forgotten, and I should 
become the same I have been before. I have rejected the offer 
of grace, Mr. Cargill, and not through ignorance, for I have 
sinned with my eyes open. Care not for me, then, who ama 
mere outcast.” He again endeavored to interrupt her, but 
she continued, “ Or if you really wish my welfare, let me relieve 
my bosom of that which presses it, and it may be that I shall 


ST. RONAN’S WELL, 385 


then be better able to listen to you. You say you remember me 
not—but if I tell you how often you refused to perform in secret 
the office which was required of you—how much you urged that 
it was against your canonical rules—if | name the argument to 
which you yielded—and remind you of your purpose, to acknowl- 
edge your transgression to your brethren in the church courts, 
to plead your excuse, and submit to their censure, which you 
said could not be a light one—you will be then aware, that, in 
the voice of the miserable pauper, you hear the words of the 
once artful, gay, and specious Hannah Irwin. ” 

““T allow it—I allow it!” said Mr. Cargill; “‘I admit the 
tokens, and believe you to be indeed her whose name you 
assume. ” 

“Then one painful step is over,” said she; “for I would ere 
now have lightened my conscience by confession, saving for the 
cursed pride of spirit, which was ashamed of poverty, though it 
had not shrunk from guilt.—Well—lIn these arguments, which 
were urged to you by a youth best known to you by the name 
of Francis Tyrrel, though more properly entitled to that of 
Valentine Bulmer, we practiced on you a base and gross decep- 
tion.— Did you not hear some one sigh ?—I hope there is no one 
in the room.—TI trust I shall die when my confession is signed 
and sealed, without my name being dragged through the public 
—I hope ye bring not in your menials to gaze on my abject 
misery—I cannot brook that.” 

She paused and listened ; for the ear, usually deafened by 
pain, is sometimes, on the contrary, rendered morbidly acute. 
Mr. Cargill assured her, there was no one present but himself. 
But, O, most unhappy woman!” he said, ‘‘ what does your intro- 
duction prepare me to expect?” 

“ Your expectation, be it ever so ominous, shall be fully satis- 
fied.— I was the guilty confidant of the false Francis Tyrrel.— 
Clara loved the true one.—When the fatal ceremony passed, the 
bride and the clergyman were deceived alike—and I was the 
wretch—the fiend—who, aiding another yet blacker, if blacker 
could be—mainly helped to accomplish this cureless misery !” 

“Wretch!” exclaimed the clergyman, ‘‘and had you not then 
done enough ?—Why did you expose the betrothed of one brother 
to become the wife of another?” 

“T acted,” said the sick woman, “ only as Bulmer instructed 
me; but I had to do with a master of the game. He contrived, 
by his agent Solmes, to match me with a husband imposed on 
me by his devices as a man of fortune——a wretch, who maltreated 
me—plundered me—sold me.—Oh! if fiends laugh, as I have 
heard they can, what a jubilee of scorn will there be, when Bul- 


386 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


mer and I enter their place of torture !—Hark !—I am sure of 
it—some one draws breath as if shuddering !” 

“You will distract yourself if you give way to these fancies. 
Be calm—speak on—but oh! at last, and for once, speak the 
truth!” 

“ TJ will, for it will best gratify my hatred against him, who 
having first robbed me of my virtue made me a sport and a 
plunder to the basest of the species. For that I wandered here 
to unmask him. I had heard he again stirred his suit to Clara, 
and I came here to tell young Mowbray the whole.—But do 
you wonder that I shrunk from doing so till this last decisive 
moment ?—I thought of my conduct to Clara, and how could I 
face her brother ?—And yet I hated her not after I learned her 
utter wretchedness—her deep misery, verging even upon mad- 
ness—lI hated her not then. I was sorry that she was not to fall 
to the lot of a better man than Bulmer ;—and I pitied her after 
she was rescued by Tyrrel, and you may remember it was I who 
prevailed on you to conceal her marriage.” 

‘“‘T remember it,” answered Cargill, “and that you alleged 
as a reason for secrecy, danger from her family. I did conceal 
it, until reports that she was again to be married reached my 
ears.” 

“Well then,” said the sick woman, “‘ Clara Mowbray ought 
to forgive me—since what ill I have done her was inevitable, 
while the good I did was voluntary.—I must see her. Master 
Cargill—I must see her before I die—I shall never pray till I 
see her—I shall never profit by word of godliness till I see her! 
If I cannot obtain the pardon of a worm like myself, how can I 
hope for that of ” 

She started at these words with a faint scream ; for slowly, 
and with a feeble hand, the curtains of the bed opposite to the 
side at which Cargill sat were opened, and the figure of Clara 
Mowbray, her clothes and long hair drenched and dripping with 
rain, stood in the opening by the bedside. The dying woman 
sat upright, her eyes starting from their sockets, her lips quiver- 
ing, her face pale, her emaciated hands grasping the bed-clothes 
as if to support herself, and looking as much aghast as if her 
confession had called up the apparition of the betrayed friend.. 

“Hannah Irwin,” said Clara, with her usual sweetness of 
tone, ‘ my early friend—my unprovoked enemy !—Betake thee 
to Him who hath pardon for us all, and betake thee with confi- 
dence—for I pardon you as freely as if you had never wronged 
me —as freely I desire my own pardon.—Farewell—Fare- 
well! ” 

She retired from the room ere the clergyman could convince 


ST, RONAN’S WELL. 387 


himself that it was more than a phantom which he beheld. He 
ran down stairs—he summoned assistants, but no one could at- 
tend his call; forthe deep ruckling groans of the patient satisfied 
every one that she was breathing her last ; and Mrs. Dods, with 
the maid-servant, ran into the bed-room to witness the death of 
Hannah Irwin, which shortly after took place. 

That event had scarcely occurred, when the maid-servant who 
had been left in the inn, came down in great terror to acquaint 
her mistress, that a lady had entered the house like a ghost, 
and was dying in Mr. Tyrrel’s room. ‘The truth of the story we 
must tell our own way. 

In the irregular state of Miss Mowbray‘s mind, a less violent 
impulse than that which she had received from her brother’s 
arbitrary violence, added to the fatigues, dangers, and terrors 
of her night-walk, might have exhausted the power of her body 
and alienated those of her mind. We have before said that the 
lights in the clergyman’s house had probably attracted her at- 
tention and in the temporary confusion of a family, never 
remarkable for its regularity, she easily mounted the stairs, and 
entered the sick chamber undiscovered, and thus overheard 
Hannah Irwin’s confession, a tale sufficient to have greatly 
ageravated her mental malady. 

We have no means of knowing whether she actually sought 
Tyrrel, or whether it was, as in the former case, the circum- 
stance of a light still burning where all around was dark, that 
attracted her; but her next apparition was close by the side of 
her unfortunate lover, then deeply engaged in writing, when 
something suddenly gleamed on a large old-fashioned mirrior, 
which hung on the wall opposite. He looked up, and saw the 
figure of Clara, holding a light (which she had taken from the 
passage) in her extended hand. He stood for an instant with 
his eyes fixed on this fearful shadow, ere he dared to turn round 
onthe substance which was thus reflected. When he did so, the 
fixed and pallid countenance almost impressed him with the 
belief that he saw a vision, and he shuddered when, stooping 
beside him, she took his hand. “Come away!” she said in a 
hurried voice—‘“‘ Come away, my brother follows to kill us both. 
Come, Tyrrel, let us fly—we shall easily escape him.—Hannah 
Irwin is on before—but, if we are overtaken, I will have no 
more fighting—you must promise me that we shall not—we have 
had but too much of that—but you will be wise in future.” 

“Clara Mowbray!” exclaimed Tyrrel, “Alas! is it thus? 
—Stay—do not go,”’ for she turned to make her escape—“ stay 
—stay—sit down.” 

“| must go,” she replied, “ I must go—I am called—Han« 


388 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


nah Irwin is gone before to tell all, and I must follow. Will you 
not let me go ?—Nay, if you will hold me by force, I know I 
must sit down—But you will not be able to keep me for all 
that.” 

A convulsion fit followed, and seemed, by its violence, to 
explain that she was indeed bound for the last and darksome 
journey. The maid, who at length answered Tyrrel’s earnest 
and repeated summons, fled terrified at the scene she witnessed, 
and carried to the Manse the alarm which we before mentioned. 

The old landlady was compelled to exchange one scene of 
sorrow for another, wondering within herself what fatality could 
have marked this single night with so much misery. When she 
arrived at home, what was her astonishment to find there the 
daughter of the house, which, even in their alienation, she had 
never ceased to love, in a state little short of distraction, and 
tended by Tyrrel, whose state of mind seemed scarce more com- 
posed than that of the unhappy patient. The oddities of Mrs. 
Dods were merely the rust which had accumulated upon her char- 
acter, but without impairing its native strength and energy; 
and her sympathies were not of a kind acute enough to disable 
her from thinking and acting as decisively as circumstances 
required. 

‘““Maister Tyrrel,” she said, “ this is nae sight for men folk 
ye maun rise and gang to another room.” 

*“ T will not stir from her,” said Tyrrel—“ I wiil not remove 
from her either now, or as long as she or I may live.” 

“That will be nae lang space, Maister Tyrrel, if ye wunna 
be ruled by common sense.” 

Tyrrel started up, as if half comprehending what she said, 
remained motionless. 

“Come, come,” said the compassionate landlady; “ do not 
stand looking on a sight sair eneugh to break a harder heart 
than yours, hinny —your ain sense tells ye, ye canna stay here 
—Miss Clara shall be weel cared for, and I’ll bring word to your 
room-door frae half-hour to half-hour how she is.” 

The necessity of the case was undeniable, and Tyrrel suffered 
himself to be led to another apartment, leaving Miss Mowbray 
to the care of the hostess and her female assistants. He counted 
the hours in an agony, less by the watch than by the visits which 
Mrs Dods, faithful to her promise, made from interval to inter- 
val, to tell him that Clara was not better—that she was worse— 
and, at last, that she did not think she could live over morning. 
It required all the deprecatory influence of the good landlady to 
restrain Tyrrel, who, calm and cold on common occasions, was 
proportionally fierce and impetuous when his passions were afloat 


la ts 1k 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 389 


from bursting into the room, and ascertaining, with his own eyes, 
the state of the beloved patient. At length there was a long in- 
terval—an interval of hours—so long, indeed, that Tyrrel caught 
from it the flattering hope that Clara slept, and that sleep might 
bring refreshment both to mind and body. Mrs. Dods, he con- 
cluded, was prevented from moving, for fear of disturbing her 
patient’s slumber ; and, as if actuated by the same feeling which 
he imputed to her, he ceased to traverse his apartment, as his 
agitation had hitherto dictated, and throwing himself into a 
chair, forbore to move even a finger, and withheld his respiration 
as much as possible, just as if he had been seated by the pillow 
of the patient. Morning was far advanced when his landlady 
appeared in his room with a grave and anxious countenance. 

“Mr Tyrrel,” she said, “ ye are a Christian man.” 

“ Hush, hush, for Heaven’s sake ! ” he replied ;. “you will 
disturb Miss Mowbray.” 

“Naething will disturb her, puir thing,” answered Mrs. 
Dods ;“‘ they have muckle to answer for that brought her to this.” 

“They have—they have indeed,” said Tyrrel, striking his 
forehead ; ‘and I will see her avenged on every one of them! 
—Can I see her ?”’ 

“ Better not—better not,” said the good woman ; but he 
burst from her, and rushed into the apartment. 

“Ts life gone ?—Is every spark extinct ?”’ he exclaimed 
eagerly to a country surgeon, a sensible man, who had been 
summoned from Marchthorn in the course of the night. The 
medical man shook his head—Tyrrel rushed to the bedside, and 
was convinced by his own eyes that the being whose sorrows 
he had both caused and shared was now insensible to all earthly 
calamity. He raised almost a shriek of despair, as he threw him- 
self on the pale hand ofthe corpse, wet it with tears, devoured 
it with kisses, and played for a short time the part of a dis- 
tracted person. At length, on the repeated expostulation of all 
present he suffered himself to be again conducted to another 
apartment, the’surgeon fo!lowing, anxious to give such sad 
consolation as the case admitted of. 

“As you are so deeply concerned for the untimely fate of 
this young lady,” he said, “‘ it may be some satisfaction to you, 
though ‘a melancholy one, to know, that it has been occasioned 
by a pressure on the brain, probably accompanicd by a suftu- 
sion’; and I feel authorized in stating, from the symptoms, that if 


life had been spared, reason would, in all probability, never have 


returned. In such a case, sir, the most affectionate relation 
must own that death, in comparison to life, is a mercy.” 
“ Mercy!” answered Tyrrel ; “ but why, then, is it denied to 


390 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


me ?—I know—I know !—My life is spared till I revenge her.” 

He started from his seat, and hurried eagerly down stairs 
But, as he was about to rush from the door of the inn, he was 
stopped by Touchwood, who had just alighted from a carriage, 
with an air of stern anxiety imprinted on his features, very 
different from their usual expression. ‘‘ Whither would ye? 
Whither would ye ?”’ he said, laying hold of Tyrrel, and stopping 
him by force. 

“For revenge—for revenge !” said Tyrrel. “ Give way, I 
charge you on your peril !” 

“Vengeance belongs to God,” replied the old man,” and his 
bolt has fallen.—This ‘way—this way,” he continued, dragging 
Tyrrel into the house, ‘“‘ Know,” he said. so soon as he had 
led or forced him into a chamber, “ that Mowbray of St. Ronan’s 
has met Bulmer within this half-hour, and has killed him on 
the spot.” 

“Killed ?—whom ?” answered the bewildered Tyrrel. 

“Valentine Bulmer, the titular Earl of Etherington.” 

“You bring tiding of death to the house of death,” 
answered Tyrrel ; “and there is nothing in this world left that 
I should live for.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-NINTH. 


CONCLUSION. 


Here come we to our close—for that which follows 
Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery. 
Steep crags and headlong linns may court the pencil, 
Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange adventures ; 
But who would paint the dull and fog-wrapt moor, 
In its long track of sterile desolation ? 

OLD PLay. 


WHEN Mowbray crossed the brook, as we have already de- | 
tailed, his mind was in that wayward and uncertain state, which 
seeks something whereon to vent the self-engendered rage with 
which it labors, “like a-volcano before eruption. On asudden,a 
sho tor two, followed by loud voices and laughter, reminded him 
he had promised, at that hour, and in that sequestered place, to 
decide a bet respecting pistol-shooting, to which the titular 
Lord Etherington, Jekyl, and Captain MacTurk, to whom such 
a pastime was peculiarly congenial, were parties as well as 


ek ae 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 391 


himself. The prospect this recollection afforded him, of ven- 
geance on the man whom he regarded as the author of his 
sister’s wrongs, was, in the present state of his mind, too 
tempting to be relinquished ; and, setting spurs to his horse, he 
rushed through the copse to the little glade, where he found the 
other parties who, despairing of his arrival, had already begun 
theiramusement. A jubilee shout was set up as he approached. 

“Here comes. Mowbray, dripping, py Cot, like a watering- 
pan,” said Captain MacTurk. 

“] fear him not,” said Etherington (we may as well still call 
him so) ; “ he has ridden too fast to have steady nerves.” 

“We shall soon see that, my Lord Etherington, or rather 
Mr. Valentine Bulmer,” said Mowbray, springing from his horse, 
and throwing the bridle over the ‘bough of a tree. 

“What does this mean, Mr. Mowbray?” said Etherington, 
drawing himself up, while Jekyl and Captain MacTurk looked 
at each other in sulrprise. 

*- [t means, sir, that you are a rascal and an impostor,” replied 
Mowbray, “who have assumed a name to which you have 
no right.” . 

“That, Mr. Mowbray, is an insult I cannot carry further 
than this spot,” said Etherington. 

“Tf you had been willing to do so, you should have carried 
with it something still harder to be borne,” answered Mowbray. 

* Enough, enough, my good sir; no use in spurring a will- 
ing horse. Jekyl, you will have the kindness to stand by me in 
this matter?” 

“ Certainly, my lord,’’ said Jekyl. 

“And as there seems to be no chance of taking up the 
matter amicably,” said the pacific Captain MacTurk, “ I will 
be most happy, so help me, to assist my worthy friend, Mr. 
Mowbray of St. Ronan’s, with my countenance and advice. 
Very goot chance that we were here with the necessary weapons 
since it would have been an unpleasant thing to have such an 
affair long upon, the stomach, any more than to settle it without 
witnesses.” 

*‘T would fain know first,” said Jekyl, ‘ what all this sudden 
heat has arisen about?” 

“ About nothing,” said Etherington, ‘‘ except a mare’s nest 
of Mr. Mowbray’s discovering. He always knew his sister 


‘played the madwoman, and he has nowheard a report, I sup- 


pose, that she has likewise in her time played the fool.” 
* Qh, crimini!” cried Captain MacTurk, “ my good Captain, 
let us pe loading and measuring out—for, by my soul, if these 


302 ST. RONAN’S WELZ. 
sweetmeats be passing between them, it is only the twa ends of 
a hankercher that can serve the turn—Cot tamn !” 

With such friendly intentions the ground was hastily meted 
out. Each was well known as an excellent shot; and the 
Captain offered a bet to Jekyl of a mutchkin of Glenlivat that 
both would fall by the first fire. The event showed that he 
was nearly right, for the ball of Lord Etherington grazed 
Mowbray’s temple at the very second of time that Mowbray’s 
pierced his heart. He sprung a yard from the ground, and 
fell down a dead man. Mowbray stood fixed like a pillar of 
stone, his arm dropped to his side, his hand still clenched on 
the weapon of death, reeking at the touch-hole and muzzle. 
Jekyl ran to raise and support his friend, and Captain MacTurk, 
having adjusted his spectacles, stooped on one knee to look 
him in the face. ‘ We should have had Dr. Quackleben here,” 
he said, wiping his glasses, and returning them to the shagreen 
case, ‘‘ though it would have been only for form’s sake—for he 
is as dead as a toor-nail, poor boy. But come, Mowbray, my 
bairn,” he said, taking him by the arm, “ we must be ganging 
our ain gate, you and me, before waur comes of it. .I have a 
bit pownie here, and you have your horse till we get to March- 
thorn. Captain Jekyl, I wish you a good morning. Will you 
have my umbrella back to the inn, for I surmeese it is going 
tO Taint *. 

Mowbray had not ridden a hundred yards with his guide and 
companion, when he drew his bridle, and refused to proceed a 
step further till he had learned what had become of Clara. 
The Captain began to find he had a very untractable pupil to 
manage, when, while they were arguing together, ‘Touchwood 
drove past in his hack chaise. As soon as he recognized 
Mowbray, he stopped the carriage to inform him that his 
sister was at the Aultoun, which he had learned from finding 
there had been a messenger sent from thence to the Well for 
medical assistance, which could not be afforded, the Esculapius 
of the place, Dr. Quackleben, having been privately married to 
Mrs. Blower on that morning by Mr. Chatterly, and having set 
out on the usual nuptial tour. 

In return for this intelligence, Captain MacTurk communi- 
cated the fate of Lord Etherington. ‘The old man earnestly 
pressed instant flight, for which he supplied at the same time 
ample means, engaging to furnish every kird of assistance and 
support to the unfortunate young lady ; and representing to 
Mowbray that if he stayed in the vicinity, a prison would soon 
“separate them. Mowbray and his companion then departed 
southward upon the spur, reached London in safety, and from 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 393 


thence went together to the Peninsula, where the war was then 
at the hottest. 

There remains little more to be told. Mr. Touchwood is 
still alive, forming plans which have no object, and accumu- 
lating a fortune, for which he has apparently no heir. The old 
man had endeavored to fix his character, as well as his general 
patronage, upon ‘Tyrrel, but the attempt only determined the 
latter to leave the country; nor has he been since heard of, 
although the title and estates of Etherington lie vacant for his 
acceptance. It is the opinion of many that he has entered into 
a Moravian mission, for the use of which he had previously . 
drawn considerable sums. 

Since Tyrrel’s departure no one pretends to guess what old 
Touchwood will do with his money. He often talks of his 
disappointments, but can never be made to understand, or at 
least to admit, that they were in some measure precipitated by 
his own talent for intrigue and manceuvring. Most people 
think that Mowbray of St. Ronan’s will be at last his heir. 
That gentleman has of late shown one quality which usually 
recommends men to the favor of rich relations — namely, a 
close and cautious care of whatis already his own. Captain 
MacTurk’s military ardor having revived when they came 
within smell of gunpowder, the old soldier contrived not only 
to get himself on full pay, but toinduce his companion to serve 
forsome time asa volunteer. He afterward obtained a com- 
mission, and nothing could be more strikingly different than 
was the conduct of the young Laird of St. Ronan’s and of 
Lieutenant Mowbray. The former, as we know, was gay, ventur- 
ous, and prodigal ; the latter lived on his pay, and even within 
it—denied himself comforts, and often decencies, when doing 
so could save a guinea, and turned pale with apprehension if, on 
any extraordinary occasion, he ventured sixpence a corner at 
whisk. This meanness, or closeness of disposition, prevents his 
holding the high character to which his bravery and _ attention 
to his regimental duties might otherwise entitle him. The 
same close and accurate calculation of pounds, shillings, and 
pence marked his communications with his agent Meiklewham, 
who might otherwise have had better pickings out of the estate 
of St. Ronan’s, which is now at nurse, and thriving full fast, 
especially since some debts, of rather an usurious character, 
have been paid up by Mr. Touchwood, who contented himself 
with more moderate usage. 

On the subject of this property Mr. Mowbray, generally 
speaking, gave such minute directions for acquiring and saving, 
that his old acquaintance, Mr, Winterblossom, tapping his 


394 ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


morocco snuff-box with the sly look which intimated the coming 
of a good thing, was wont to say that he had reversed the 
usual order of transformation, and was turned into a grub after 
having been a butterfly. After all, this narrowness, though 
a more ordinary modification of the spirit of avarice, may be 
founded on the same desire of acquisition which, in his earlier 
days, sent him to the gaming-table. 

But there was one remarkable instance in which Mr. Mow- 
bray departed from the rules of economy, by which he was 
guided in all others. Having acquired, for a large sum of 
money, the ground which he had formerly feued out for the 
erection of the hotel, lodging-houses, shops, etc., at St. Ronan’s 
Well, he sent positive orders for the demolition of the whole ; 
nor would he permit the existence of any house of entertain- 
ment on his estate, except that in the Aultoun, where Mrs. 
Dods reigns with undisputed sway, her temper by no means 
improved either by time, or her arbitrary disposition by the 
total absence of competition. * 

Why Mr. Mowbray, with his acquired habits of frugality, 
thus destroyed a property which might have produced a con- 
siderable income, no one could pretend to affirm. Some said 
that he remembered his own early follies, and others that he 
connected the buildings with the misfortunes of his sister. 
The vulgar reported that Lord Etherington’s ghost had been 
seen in the ball-room, and the learned talked of the association 
of ideas. But it all ended in this, that Mr. Mowbray was 
independent enough to please himself, and that such was Mr. 
Mowbray’s pleasure. 

The little watering-place had returned to its primitive obscu- 
rity, and lions and lionesses, with their several jackals, blue 
surtouts and bluer stockings, fiddlers and dancers, painters and 
amateurs, authors and critics, dispersed like pigeons by the 
demolition of a dovecot, have sought other scenes of amusement 
and rehearsal, and have deserted St. RONAN’s WELL. 


* Note H. Meg Dods 


ae oa 


Tree Te 


NOTES TO ST. RONAN’S WELL, 


Norte A, p. 8.—INN CHARGES, 


THIS was universally the case in Scotland forty or fifty years ago; and 
so little was charged for a domestic’s living when the Author became first 
acquainted with the road, that a shilling or eighteenpence was sufficient 
board wages for a man-servant, when a crown would not now answer the 
purpose. It is true the cause of these reasonable charges rested upon a 
principle equally unjust to the landlord and inconvenient to the guest. The 
landlord did not expect to make anything upon the charge for eating which 
his bill contained ; in consideration of which the guest was expected to 
drink more wine than might be convenient or agreeable to him, ‘ for the 
good,” as it was called, of the house.” ‘The landlord, indeed, was willing and 
ready to assist, ir this duty, every stranger who came within his gates. 
Other things were in proportion. A charge for lodging, fire, and candle, 
was long a thing unheard of in Scotland. A shilling to the housemaid 
settled all such considerations. .I see, from memorandums of 1790, that a 
young man, with two ponies and a serving-lad, might travel from the house 
of one Meg Dods to another, through most part of Scotland, for about five 
or six shillings a-day. 


Nore B, p. 9.—BUILDING-FEUS IN SCOTLAND. 


In Scotland a village is erected upon a species of landright, very dif- 
ferent from the copyhold so frequent in England. Every alienation or sale 
of landed property must be made in the shape of a feudal conveyance, and 
the party who acquires it holds thereby an absolute and perfect right of 
property in the fief while he discharges the stipulations of the vassal, and, 
above all, pays the feu-duties. The vassal or tenant of the site of the 
smailest cottage holds his possessions as absolutely as the proprietor, of 
whose large estate it is perhaps scarce a perceptible portion. By dint of 
excellent laws, the sasines or deeds of delivery of such fiefs, are placed 
in record in such order, that every burden affecting the property can be 
seen for payment of a very moderate fee; so that a person proposing to 
lend money upon it knows exactly the nature and extent of his security. 

_. From the nature of these Jandrights being so explicit and secure, the 
Scottish people have been led to entertain a jealousy of building-leases, of 
however Jong duration. Not long ago, a great landed proprietor took the 
latter mode of disposing of some ground near a thriving town in the west 
country, The number of years in the lease was settled at nine hundred and 
uinety-nine. Ail was agreed to, and the deeds were ordered to be drawn. 


396 NOTES. 


But the tenant, as he walked down the avenue, began to reflect that the | 
lease, though so very long as to be almost perpetual, nevertheless had a 
termination ; and that after the lapse of a thousand years, lacking one, the 
connection of his family and representatives with the estate would cease. 
He took a qualm at the thought of the loss to be sustained by his posterity 
a thousand years hence; and going back to the house of the gentleman who 
feued the ground, he demanded, and readily obtained, the additional term 
of fifty years to be added to the lease. 


Nore. C, p. 57.—THE DARK LADYE., 


The Dark Ladye is one of those tantalizing fragments in which Mr. 
Coleridge has shown us what exquisite powers of poetry he has suffered to 
remain uncultivated. Let us be thankful for what we have received how- 
evere The unfashioned ore, drawn from so rich a mine, is worth all to 
which art can add its highest decorations, when drawn from less abundant 
sources. The verses beginning the poem, which are published separately, 
are said to have soothed the last hours of Mr. Fox. They are the stanzas 
entitled LOVE, . 


NoTE D, p. 118. —KETTLE OF FISH. 


A kettle of fish is a féte-champétre of a particular kind, which is to other 
féte-champétres what the piscatory eclogues of Brown or Sannazario are to 
pastoral poetry. A large caldron is boiled by the side of a salmon river, 
containing a quantity of water, thickened with salt to the consistence of 
brine. In this the fish is plunged when taken, and eaten by the company 
fronde super viridi. This is accounted the best way of eating salmon by 
those who desire to taste the fish in a state of extreme freshness. Others 
prefer it after being kept a day or two, when the curd melts into oil, and 
the fish becomes richer and more luscious. The more judicious gastronomes 
eat no other sauce than a spoonful of the water in which the salmon is 
boiled, together with a little pepper and vinegar. 


NoTE E, p. 160,—Maco-Pico. 


This satire, very popular even in Scotland, at least with one party, was 
composed at the expense of a reverend Presbyterian divine, of whom many 
stories are preserved, being Mr. Alexander Pyott, the Mago-Pico of the 
tale, minister of Dunbar in 1733-65. The work is now little known in 
Scotland, and not at all in England, though written with much strong and 
coarse humor, resembling the style of Arbuthnot. It was composed by 
Mr. Haliburton, a military chaplain. The distresses attending Mago-Pico’s 
bachelor life are thus stated :— 

“ At the same time I desire you would only figure out to yourself his 
situation during his celibacy in the: ministerial charge—a house lying all 
heaps upon heaps; his bed ill made, swarming with fleas, and very cold on 
the winter nights ; his sheep’s head not to be eaten for wool and _ hair, his 
broth singed, his bread mouldy, his lambs and pigs all scouthered, his house 
neither washed nor plastered; his black stockings darned with white worsted 
above the shoes ; his butter made into cat’s harns ; his cheese one heap of 
mites and maggots, and full of large avenues for rats and mice to play at 
hide and seek and make their nests in. Frequent were the admonitions he 
had given his maidservants on this score, and every now and then he was 
turning them off; but still the last was the worst, and in the meanwhile 
the poor man was the sufferer. At any rate, therefore, matrimony must 


~~-) ew 


‘ 


NOTES. 397 


turn to his account, though his wife should prove to be nothing but a 
creature of the feminine gender, with a tongue in her head, and ten fingers 
on her hands, to clear out the papers of the housemaid, not to mention the 
convenience of a man having itin his power lawfully to beget sons and 
daughters in his own house.”—Memoirs of Mago-Pico. Second Edition 
Edinburgh, 1761, p. 19. 


Note F, p. 322.—CANINE DEXTERITY. 


There were several instances of this dexterity, but especially those 
which occurred in the celebrated case of Murdison and Millar in 1773. 
These persons, a sheep-farmer and his shepherd, settled in the vale of 
Tweed, commenced and carried on for some time an extensive system of 
devastation on the flocks of their neighbors. A dog belonging to Millar was 
so well trained that he had only to show him during the day the parcel of - 
sheep which he desired to have ; and when dismissed at night for the pur- 
pose, Yarrow went right to the pasture where the flock had fed, and car- 
ried off the quantity shown to him. He then drove them before him by the 
most secret paths to Murdison’s farm, where the dishonest master and 
servant were in readiness to receive the booty, Two things were remark- 
able. In the first place, that if the dog, when thus dishonestly employed, ac- 
tually met his master, he observed great caution in recognizing him, as if he 
had been afraid of bringing him under suspicion; secondly, that he showed 
a distinct sense that the illegal transactions in which he was engaged were 
not of a nature to endure daylight. The sheep which he was directed to 
drive were often reluctant to leave their own pastures, and sometimes the 
intervention of rivers and other obstacles made their progress peculiarly 
difficult. On such occasions Yarrow continued his efforts to drive his 
plunder forward, until the day began to dawn, a signal which, he conceived, 
rendered it necessary for him to desert his spoil, and slink homeward bya 
circuitous road. It is generally said this accomplished dog was hanged 
along with his master; but the truth is, he survived him long, in the ser- 
vice of a man in Leithen, yet was said afterward to have shown little of the 
wonderful instinct exhibited in the service of Millar. 

Another instance of similar sagacity,.a friend of mine discovered in a 
beautiful little spaniel which he had purchased from a dealer in the canine 
race. When he entered a shop, he was not long in observing that his little 
companion made it a rule to follow at some interval, and to estrange itself 
from his master so much as to appear totally unconnected with him. And 
when he left the shop, it was the dog’s custom to remain behind him till it 
could find opportunity of seizing a pair of gloves, or silk stockings, or some 
similar property, which it brought to its master. ‘The poor fellow probably 
saved its life by falling into the hands of an honest man. 


NoTE G, p. 329.—PAROCHIAL CHARITY. 


The Author has made an attempt in this character to draw a picture of 
what is too often seen, a wretched being whose heart becomes hardened 
and spited at the world, in which she is doomed to experience much misery 
and little sympathy. The system of compulsory charity by poor’s rates, 
of which the absolute necessity can hardly be questioned, has connected 
with it on both sides some of the most odious and malevolent feelings that 
can agitate humanity. The quality of true charity is not strained. Like 
that of mercy, of which, in a large sense, it may be accounted a sister virtue, 
it blesses him that gives and him that takes. It awakens kindly feelings 
both in the mind of the donor and in that of the relieved object, The giver 


398 NOTES. 


and receiver are recommended to each other by mutual feelings of good 
will, and the pleasurable emotions connected with the consciousness of a 
good action fix the deed in recollection of the one, while a sense of gratitude 
renders it holy to the other. In the legal and compulsory assessment for 
the proclaimed parish pauper, there is nothing of all this. The alms are 
extorted from an unwilling hand, and a heart which desires the annihilation 
rather than the relief of the distressed object. The object of charity, sen- 
sible of the ill-will with which the pittance is bestowed, seizes on it as his 
right, not as a favor. The manner of conferring it being directly calculated 
to hurt and disgust his feelings, he revenges himself by becoming impudent 
and clamorous. A more odious picture, or more likely to deprave the feel- 
ings of those exposed to its influence, can hardly be imagined; and yet to 
such a point have we been brought by an artificial system of society, that 
we must either deny altogether the right of the poor to their just proportion 
of the fruits of the earth, or afford them some means of subsistence out of 
them by the institution of positive law. 


Note H, p. 394.—MEcG Dons. 


Non omnis moriar., St. Ronan’s, since this veracious history was given 
to the public, has revived as a sort of a/éas, or second title to the very 
pleasant village of Innerleithen upon Tweed, where there is a medicinal 
spring much frequented by visitors. Prizes for some of the manly and 
athletic sports common in the pastoral district around, are competed for 
under the title of the St. Ronan’s Games. Nay, Meg Dods has produced 
herself of late from obscurity as authoress of a work on Cookery, of which, 
in justice to alady who makes so distinguished a figure as this excellent 
dame, we insert the title-page :— 


“ The Cook and Housewife’s Manual: A practical System of Modern 
Domestic Cookery and Family Management. 


——————————— Cook, see all your sawcees 
Be sharp and poynant to the palate, that they may 
Commend you: look to your roast and baked meats handsomely, 
And what new kickshaws and delicate made things? 

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 


By Mrs Margaret Dods, of the Cleikum Inn, St. Ronan’s.” 


Though it is rather unconnected with our immediate subject, we cannot 
help adding that Mrs. Dods has preserved the recipes of certain excellent 
old dishes which we would be loth should fall into oblivion in our day 3 
and in bearing this testimony we protest that we are in no way biassed by 
the receipt of two bottles of excellent sauce for cold meat, which were 
sent to us by Mrs. Dods as a mark of her respect and regard, for which 
we return her our unfeigned thanks, having found them capital. 


GLOSSARY 


G2. 8 - Sor 


A’, all. 


cerned. 


Abbey. 
As, one. 
AIRN, iron. 
Ay Ayre. awry. 
_ ASTEER, astir. 
_AuGHT, possession. 
AwING, owing, or bill. 
_ Awmry, cupboard. 


LLANT, ballad. 


holder who farms his own land. 


S09. 


BEE, a halfpenny. 
RAL, sexton, 


afety, or flee the country. 
IDDEN, | remained. 


(D, one’ s ability or power. 
BirL, turn, or toss. 

BLAW 1 “MY LUG, flatter, 
AWART, a blue-bottle. 
ANK, span. 

Aw, brave, fine. 
mick, a kind of boil. 


.A’D, Called. 


\LLER, fresh. 
 CANNA, cannot. 
=e NTLE, the crown of the head. 
NTRIP, an oddity. 
Care, a fellow. - 
~CARLINR, a witch. 


UCKIE, pebble. 

_ Cracuan, a hamlet. 

AViER, gossip. 

w, to beat. 

BECK, Cluck or hatch, 
EIKET, cleeked. 
Cock-BREE, cock-broth. 
CockERNONNIE, a top-knot. 
CoGukE, a wooden measure. 
Couture, a Scotch sheep-dog. 
RBIE, raven. 


Baw: RB. ‘MEMORIAL, a legal memorial which 
E does not give the names of the parties con- 


<  Anney, the sanctuary for debt at Holyrood 


-BANNET-LAIRD, a small proprietor or free- 


Barcriay, Captain, a celebrated pedestrian, 
who walked 1000 miles in 1090 hours, July 
KING AND _ FLEEING, entirely dispersed. 


ENT, TO TAKE THE, provide for one’s 


HEEK-HAFFIT, side of the cheek. 


TO ST. RONAN’S WELL. 


Ree Le oe 


CowT, colt. 

Crap, the craw of a fowl. 
CREEL, basket. 

CuUITLE, wheedle. 
CuTTY, a jade. 


DaFFinG, frolicking. 
Dart, crazy. 

DgIv’s BUCKIE, devil’s imp. 
DELEERIT, delirious. 
Diert-Loar, a kind of sponge-cake. 
Dinna, don’t. 

Dortep, dotard. 
DoNNART, stupid. 

Douce, quiet, sensible. 
Doueur, dared. 

Dowcor, dovecot. 
DRAPPIE, a drop of spirits. 
DREED, endured. 

Duna, knocked. 

Dwaw, a stupor, 


EEN, eyes. 


Fasu, trouble. 

FECK, part. 

FECKLESS, honest, innocent. 
Fenn, defence. 

FILE, ‘foul. 

Fit, foot. 

FLISKMAHOY, new-fangled, 
FLyTING, scolding. 

Forsy, besides. 

FoORBEARS, ancestors. 

Fou, full. 

Frag, form. 

FUSHIONLESS SKINK, tasteless stuff, 


GAEN, gone. 

Gar, to force or make. 
GEISENED, leaking. 

GIE, give. 

GILL-FLIRT, a keen flirt. 
GIRN, grin. 

GLEp, a kite. 
GomMERIL, an ass or fool. 
Gowp, gold. 

Gowk, a fool. 

Gow Pen, a deuble handful. 
GROSSART, a gooseberry. 


Ha’, hall, 
Hag, have. 
Haiz, whole. 


' HALE AND FEIR, right and proper, 


400 


Hap, hop. 

Haup, hold: 

Hempie, a rake. 

Her, hot. 

Hire xg, hobble. 

Hoo ty, softly, slowly. 

Hott tg, hotel. 

Hoveu, limb or thigh. 

Howr, a favorite retreat or rendezvous. 
Howk, dig. 

Huzzig, a jade. 

HvuRLEY-HACKIT, an ill-hung carriage. 


I_x, each. 


Jauas, saddle-bags, 
JER-FALCON, a species of hawk. 


KaAcg, broth. 


KITTLE, to tickle or manage. 
Knap, break, 


LANDLOUPER, Charlatan, adventurer. 
Lave, the remainder. 

Lra-riG, unploughed land or hillside. 
LEE, a lie. 

LEEVING, living. 

LinKET, linked. 

LipPeEN, trust. 

Loot, allowed. 

Loup, leap. 

Lua, the ear. 


Matin, a farm. 

Mask, brew. 

Maun, must. 

MAwkin, a hare. 

MEITH, a mark. 

MELL, to maul, to meddle with. 
Muck ig, much. 

MurGgons, mouths. 


NEIST, next. 
Ownr, over. 


PARRITCH, porridge. 
Pat, put. 

Pawky, shrewd. 
PLisk1g, a trick. 
Pock, a poke, bag. 
Pootry, poultry. 
Pownlg, a pony. 
Puir, poor. 

Pyotr, magpie. 


QuaiGH, a whisky measure, 


Rax, stretch. 

REDD, clear. 

RooF TREE, the beam of the angle of the 
house. 

Row, roll. 


GLOSSAR ¥, 


SasinE, legal, investiture. 

ScaRT, scratch. 

SCATE-RUMPLE, a poor awkward-looking per- 
son. 

SCAUFF AND RAFF, ragtag and bobtail. 

SHOOL, shovel. 

Srp, related. 

SILLER, money. 

SKEELY, skilful. 

SLAISSTER, mess, 

Stoan, a rebuff. 

Smoor, smother. 

SNAP, a biscuit. 

Sorn, to live upon. 

SOSSINGS AND SOOPINGS, puddle and sweep- 
ings. : 

SouGu, sigh; A CALM SOUGH, a quiet tongue. 

STEER, to inquire. 

SPEER, Stil. 

STREEKIT, stretched, applied to a corpse. 

Sup, should. 

SWARF, swoon. 

SYNDING, rinsing. 

SYNE, since, ago. 


TAILzt&, a bond of entail. 

TANE, the one. 

TAPPIT-HEN, a measure of claret equal to 
three magnums. 

Taupig, awkward, silly girl. 

Tuag, these. 

‘THRAWN, thwarted or twisted. 

THREEPIT, averted. 

Toom, empty. 

TourBILLon, French, vortex. 

TRACTUS TEMPORIS IN GKEMIO, egal, a deed 
of temporary contract. 

TROKE, to traffic. 


UMQUHILE, the late. 
UNco, particular. | 
UsQUuEBAUGH, whisky, 


Vus ET Monts, Lad. by ways and means. 


Wap, would. 

Wanna, would not. 

W Akg, woeful. 

W AUR, worse. 

WEE CaAppiE, the glass. 
WEIRD, destiny. 

WHAT FOR NO? why not ? 
WHEEN, a few. 

WuiLk, which. 

W HILLYWHAM, wheedling. 
Wr’, with. 

Wis, guess. 

WIZENED, withered. 

W up, mad. 


YANKING, smart, active, 


INDEX TO ST... RONAN’S WELL. 


A torp at the hottle! 147. 

A merry place, ’twas said, in days of yore, 6, 

Accommodation bills, 144. 

Anglers, visitors to the Cleikum Inn, tro. 

Appearance, woman’s respect for her, in all 
circumstances, 236. 

Artists, character of, 63. 

Autumn, scenery of, 296. 


Bracars, gentle, 353. ; f / 
Bidmore, Augusta, connection with Cargill 


157- 

Bidmore, Lord, 156. 

Bills, accommodation, 144. 

Bindloose, Meg's lawyer, 132. 

Binks, Sir Bingo, his marriage, 22, De- 
scription of, 29. Bet on the salmon, 38. 
47. Note to Tyrrel, 44. Bet on Tyr- 
rel’s social position, 50. Quarrel over the 
wine, 76. Flung aside by ‘Tyrrel, 8:. 
Challenges him, 113. At the duel, 123. 
Laughed at as boatswain, 210. 

Binks, Lady, her position and character, 54. 
Skirmish with Lady Penelope, 62. Indig- 
nation at Lady Penelope’s tea-party, 345. 

Blower, Mrs., conversation with Dr. Quack- 
leben, 64. Objections to plays, 197. 

Buck-stane, the, 82. 

Bulmer. See Etherington, 


CANINE DEXTERITY, note on, 397. 

Canine race, quarrels of, 75. 

Cargill, Rev. Josiah, his history, 155. 
sence of mind, 163. Alarm at Clara’s 
rumored marriage, 171. Interview with 
Clara at the theatricals, 211. And Ether- 
ington, 213, 269. Interrogated by Lady 
Penelope, 217. Connection with Clara’s 
marriage, 256. Receives the confession of 
Hannah Irwin, 383. 

Challenge from Sir Bingo to Tyrrel, 111. 

Champagne dangerous for ladies, 73. 

Charity, parochial, note on, 397. 

Chatterly, Simon, the curate, Meg’s opinion 
of, 19. Description, 31. Reception of, -at 
the Cleikum, 40. Note of invitation to 
Tyrrel, 43. 

Chirupping Club, 6. 

Christianity of Anglo-Indians, 344. 
Clara Mowbray described by Meg, 21. 
the company at the Well, 60. 

Tyrrel, 80. 


Ab- 


Joins 
: Warns 
Meets him on her way home, 


In her parlor, ros. Rumored mar- 

Acts Helena, 103. Addressed 

Tells her brother about 
the shawl, 222. . Interview with him about 
Etherington’s proposal, 230. Begs for 
liberty, 234. Interview with Etherington, 
239. Connection with Tyrrel and Ether- 
ington, 251. False marriage, 256, 367. 
Hannah Irwin’s confession about her, 328. 
Slandered at the tea-party, 346. Last in- 
terview with her brother, 352. Threatened 
with death, 355. Appears before Hannah 
Irwin, 386. Dies in Tyrrel’s room, 389. 

Cleikum Inn, ii. 

Commercial travelers, Meg’s dislike to, 21. 


87. 
riage, 174. 
by Cargill, 211. 


Dark LADYE, z0fe, 396+ 

Dick Tinto, 9. 

Digges, Maria, 34. Thinks Tyrrel’s nose too 
big, 63. Acts Queen of Elves, 205. 

Dinner at the Fox Hotel, 32. Quarrel after, 
76. / 

Dinner, Touchwood’s idea of, 168. 

Dods. See Meg. 

Dogs, dexterity of, xofe, 397- 

Dogs, quarrels of, 75. 

Duel at St. Ronan’s, 123. The statement, 
128. Cause of its failure, 189. The pla- 
card torn down, 284. 


ETHERINGTON, Lorn, 17. Accident to, 147. 
189. Arrivals at the Well, 173. Pro- 
poses for Clara, 180. Accounts of his 
family, 181. Letter to Jeykl, 188. Acts 
Bottom at Shaws Castle, 206. Addressed 
by Cargill, 213. Interview with Clara, 239. 
Explains Tyrrel’s relationship to Mow- 
bray, 243. His connection with him and 
Clara, 246, 259. Employs Solmes to ab- 
stract the packet, 308. Cool meeting 
with Tyrrel, 314. Sees the packet in the 
post-office, 320. At Hannah Irwin’s con- 
fession, 326. Opens Tyrrel’s packet, 334. 
Wins heavily from Mowbray, 340. Reve- 
lation by Touchwood, 363. Shot dead by 
Mowbray, 392. 


Trus in Scotland, 2o¢e, 395. 

Fish, kettle of, note on, 396. 

Frank. See Tyrrel. 

Furnishing, difficulties of, to gentlemen, 
99. 


402 INDEX. 


GAMBLING, Author’s testimony against, vii. 


Gentle beggars, 353. 

Gilsland Spa, iv. 

Gow, Neil, the fiddler, 202. 

Grace, Mrs. Blower’s anxiety for the, 64, 66. 
Greief, the sickness of the heart, go- 


HANNAH. See Irwin. 

Heggie, Anne. See Irwin 

Helter Skelter Club, 9. 

Honor, points of, 343. 

Hotel charges in Scotland, zofe, 395. 
Howgate Inn, 5s. 


IMPROVEMENTS, doubtful, 143. 
Inn charges in Scotland, zoze, 395. 
Irwin, Hannah, her confessions, 326, 383. 


JeKyL, Caprarn, letter from Etherington, 
188, 246. Letter to Etherington, 264. 
Mediates between him and Tyrrel, 283. 


Bored by Touchwood, 298. 


KETTLE of fish, note on, 396. 
Killnakelty Hunt, 8. 


Lions at watering-places, 53. 

Love, hopeless, cannot last forever, 160. 
Love-letter easily told, 311. 

Luck, belief in, 98. 


MacTurk, Captain HeEcTor, 30. Acts 
peacemaker, 77. Nursing the duel, 112. 
Encounter with Meg, 114. At the duel, 
123. Compromise on the Highland garb, 
195. Turns out the pseudo-Gaels, 209. 
Apology to Tyrrel, 313. Angry aiscussion 
with Touchwood on points of honor, 343. 


Assists Mowbray after the duel, 392. 
Mago-Pico, note on, 396. 
Malt liquor preferred by everybody, 360. 


Manse of St. Ronan’s, 4.. Slovenly character 


of, 162. 
Marchthorn, 130. 
Maria. See Digges: 
Marriages, private, 249. 
Martigny, Marie de, 248. 


Meg Dods of the Cleikum Inn, 6. Recep- 
tion of ‘Tyrrel, 13.. Extolling his drawings, 
25. Angry reception on his return from the 
Well, 93. Encounter with MacTurk, 114. 
Visit to her lawyer, 132. Dislike to travel- 
ing in the Fox’s chaise, 150. Alarm at 
Tyrrel’s appearance, 275. At  Clara’s 
death-bed, 388. Cared for by Mowbray, 


394. Note on, 398. 


Meiklewham, Mr., the lawyer, 30. Calls 
Lady Penelope to order, 60. Quarrel over 
the wine, 77. Counsels Mowbray to obtain 
Clara’s money, 99. Counseling moderate 
gains, 175. 

Meredith, Mr., the wit, 31. 

Midsummer Night’s Dream at Shaws Castle, 


ee 
Mowbray, Clara. See Clara. 

Mowbray family, 5. 

Mowbray, Mr., of St. Ronan’s, 27. Bet on 
the salmon, 38. Bets Tyrrel a raff, so. 
Quarrel over the wine, 76. Consulation 
with Meiklewham, 98. Obtains Clara’s 
money, 107, At play with Etherington, 179. 


Who proposes for Clara, 180. Theatricals 
at Shaws Castle, 193. Sneer at Lady Pe- 
nelope about the shawl, 225. Interview with 
Ciara about the proposal, 230. Receives 
the anonymous warning, 237. And shows 
it to Etherington, 243. Fatal play with 
Etherington, 339. Hears Clara slandered 
at the tea-party, 347. Last interview with 
her, 352. Throws away his hunting-knife, 
56, 377- Revelation from Touchwood, 
361. Search for his sister, 375. Meets 
and shoots Etherington, 392. Latter days 
of, 393. 

Nasos, the. See Touchwood. 

Nabobs the plague of the country, 16. 

Negus-making, 36. 

Nelly Trotter, the fish-woman, 25. Brings 
Tyrrel’s drawing to the Well, 35. 

Novels, domestic, iii. 


PAROCHIAL charity, note on, 397. 

Peace-officers, title of, 33- 

Peasantry, radical, 143. 

Penfeather, Lady Penelope, 29. Told on by 
Maria, 34. Patronizing Tyrrel, 52. Call- 
ed to order by Meiklewham, 60. Skirmish 
with Lady Binks, 62. Determination to 
be single, 69. Acts Hermia, 203. ‘Tries 
to gain information from Cargill, 217. 
Sneered at about the shawl, 225. Takes 
Etherington to’ Hannah Irwin, 322.. Her 
tea-party, 342. 

Pharmacopeeia, Dr. Quackleben’s, 66. 

Piquet, 176. 

Police, called peace-officers, 33. 

Poor-law charity, note, on 397. 


QUACKLEBEN, Dr. QuENTIN, 31. Consid- 
eration for Tyrrel’s health, 47. Sits down 
by Mrs. Blower, 64. Feeling her pulse, 
67. At the duel, 122. His rider to the 
statement, 129. Sacrifices the whole drama 
for Mrs. Blower, 198. 


RADICAL peasantry, 143. 
Revenge deferred the most dangerous, 225. 


St. Ronan’s CastTLe, 2. Kirk, 4. Manse, 
4, 162. Spa-well, 9. Meg’s account of, 
21.. The government of, 28 Village, 1. 

St. Ronan’s Well, the novel, Author’s ac- 
count of, iii. 

Satire, light, women gifted with, iii, 

Saunders Jaup’s jaw-hole, 272. 

Scenery, hill, 2. 

Scotch, better bankers than beaux, 191 
scenery, 2. 

Scotland, increase of weath in, 1. 

Scrogie, family connection with Etherington. 
181. Disclosure by Touchwood, 361. 

Shawl got for Clara, «77. Mrs. Blower’s 
estimate of it, 204. Given to Lady Pene- 
lope 223. Evil result of, 366. 

Shaws Castle theatricals, 193. Description 
of the house, 200. 

Solmes employed to abstract the packet, 308. 
And remove Hannan Irwin, 337. Out- 
manceuvred by Touchwood, 369. 

Spa the. See St. Ronan’s. 

Spa life, iv., v. 


INDEX. 


Tea, Touchwood’s opinions of, 145. 

‘Tea-party, Lady Penelope’s, 342. 

Teaching, love dangerous in, 157. 

Theatricals at Shaws Castle, 193. 

Tinto, Dick, 11. 

Toothache, a cure for, 122. 

Touchwood, Peregrine, at Bindloose’s, 140. 
At the Cleikum Inn, 151. Visit to Cargill, 
162. Has him at dinner, 168. Invited to 
Shaws Castle, 169. On shawls, 204. De- 
tects Binks as Boatswain, 210. ‘Tries to 
improve the Aultoun, 270. Falls into the 
sewer, 272. Interviews Jekyl, 298. On 
points of honor, 343. Offers assistance to 
Mowbray, 348. LDiscloses his relationship 
to Mowbray, 362. Countermines Ether- 
ington, 369, 381. 

Travelers, commercial Meg’s dislike to, 14. 

‘Trifles, subserviency to, 371. 

Tyrrel, Frank, arrival at the Cleikum Inn, 
13. Reflections on the scene, 18. Sensa- 
tion over his drawing at the Well, 36. 
Invitations to the Well, 48. Joins the com- 
pany at the Well, 43. The bet on his posi- 
tion, 50. Arrested by Clara’s empty chair, 
57- Quarrel over the wine, 76, Throws 
Sir Bingo out of his way, 82. Meeting 
‘with Clara, 87. Receives Sir Bingo’s chal. 


403 


lenge, 116. Disappearance, 135. Mow- 
bray’s inquiries about him, 244. History of 
his connection with Etherington and Clara, 
247, 258. Assists ‘Youchwood out of the 
sewer, 272. Alarm at his reappearance at 
the Cleikum, 274.  Jekyl’s mediation, 282, 
Gazes at Clara’s portrait, 295. Apology 
from Sir Bingo, 313. And meeting with 
Etherington, 314. His documents abstrac- 
ted by Etherington, 334. At Clara’s death- 
bed, 387-390. 


VALENTINE BuLMER. See Etherington, 
Villages, emigration from, to towns, 1, 


WAITING, clumsy, 32. 

Watering-place characters, zofe, vii. Govern- 
ments, 28. Surveillance, 67. 

Well. See St. Ronan’s. 

Wildfire Club, rs. 

Winterblossom, Mr., 31. Rapture over 
Tyrrel’s drawing, 36. Letters of invitation 
to him, 42. Agrees to act second in the 
duel, 121. 

Woman’s respect for her appearance in all 
circumstances, 236. 

Women gifted with light satire, iii. the vic- 
tims of feeling, 323. 


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